This was written about eight months ago, but I thought to put it up because it will give the woman that is this space curves. Also, the stories of the ashes, as much as the story of the skies, deserve to be told.

She said ‘oooh, I know the sun must set to rise’

Sometimes, I sit and wonder when the last time was when I laughed from the inside out. I wonder when last I laughed and didn’t have a ‘but’ at the back of my mind. I wonder if that’s what being an adult is about, that I now have to learn to make ’half laughs’. I’ve read a couple of poems that would describe this state, but you know how it is with poems, as tee puts it, ‘Poets are selfish. Why have something so clearly beautiful to say and then hide it in words that frustrate everyone else?”

I wonder what happiness is for me. There was a time when I had three precise answers to, “what do you care about?” They were: ‘my friends and family, my education and my spiritual life.” I guess then that if anything went wrong with any of these I would be unhappy. 2011 came along and undid an element of all this, brick by painful brick. All the things I thought I would die without-the relationships and the people and the ‘education’-are gone, and I am still breathing.

There is something I have never enjoyed and it is this: ‘without soul’. I do not like breathing ‘without soul’. I do not like studying ‘without soul’. I do not like socializing ‘without soul’. It is unlike me, and it makes me sad that I have been wallowing in a ‘without soul’ state for so long.

I don’t want the relationships I lost back. I don’t want my friends’ unhappiness deleted. I don’t want rejections to turn into acceptance. I just want a second. I want new healthy relationships. I want my friends, with their scars, to work towards their happiness, steadily, and that happiness stops taking its time approaching them. I want a new chance at the education I wish for myself.

I have learnt that I am stronger than I had credited myself with before. One thing saddens me about the way I have worked through this trough though- that I have not managed to be happy despite what is happening around me. I do not like that I have been complacent, yet I do not know how not to be. I have always thought it an insult to the people with true problems, not the doll-house issues that weigh me down, to complain. I do not like that it has made me a tad bit less social and this much more withdrawn. I do not like that there is a recklessness that has subdued me, continues to choke me, refuses to let me go.

It fascinates me how little the things that used to be the centre of my life matter anymore; how small they’ve grown through the eyes of my adult soul. I don’t mind growing up- embracing the grace of an adult versus the grief of a child. There’s only one thing I continue to hope I do not have to give up to grow up- and that’s laughing from the inside out.

Of Little Angels for Obsessions

To commit to having a child is to commit to having your heart roam freely outside your ribcage for a lifetime- hopefully.

She walked lazily to the window. It was a huge glass opening that classily covered the entire width of the medium-sized living room. She drew the cotton blinder slightly aside so she could peep outside into the bustle of the neighborhood. Her countenance gave in to an escaping smile. Today it was not quiet outside; today she was not greeted ominously by the usual graveyard silence that had the neighborhood under arrest on normal occasions. She hated silence. It was why she had not made as much effort as her mother would have liked, to move into an uptown estate. Silence was to her… the sound of dying community.

She swung her head and looked past the adjacent building to the well tended green that formed the centre piece for the estate. She looked lovingly at the little agents of her salvation. She loved that they came in different sizes,5 year olds; 8 year olds; 10 year olds, like a shoe store. She loved that they had little feet. She loved how they made a zillion steps to get only so far. She loved how awkward their movements were characteristically, and how many times they were in danger- of falling, of poking each other’s eyes, of tripping over oh so terribly short grass, of pouring this, of eating that… she remembered how when she was a child her mother would tell her that God has his angels forever watching over children. It was true.

She loved the holidays. Each time they came around she found herself cursing the adjacent building for being so tall, and for consequently rationing her chance to take in this wonderful sight. She very well knew she was exaggerating this little obsession of hers. She thought of what her own would be like and her eyes sparkled. People said her features hadn’t changed much since childhood- ebony skin, “convexy” forehead, notorious smile, and eyes that seemed to laugh at you. Deep down she hoped her children would look like her a bit- ok strikingly. She still cherished the thought of one day having children; all that was inhibiting her was timing- right timing.

Outside of me


It’s like you’re a demon I can’t face down

I haven’t experienced snow yet, but I imagine outside of me is what the Canadian winter feels like.

I’m not properly dressed. I have on that grey spaghetti top I like and my black trousers. I am standing at the roadside. I think. I can’t tell because of the snow blanket. I am making a clumsy attempt- lacking in grace- to both hold my bag and put my hands in it to keep warm.  Of course it’s not working. I can feel a cold sneaking up on me. I must have a running nose.

She comes along, and she is furious. I can’t hear what she’s saying, yet what she’s saying seeps into me. There’s not enough room for both- what she’s saying and my blood- so I bleed… I’m crying. I dab my eyes against my top. It’s stained red. Am I crying? Now that top is ruined.

He comes along. I panic. I try to be as distracted as can be. Of course he will see though. Of course he will see that my eyes aren’t red. Something red is oozing out of them. Of course he will see I’m uncomfortable. I am out of place. I am not ready for this cold that can freeze hell. But all he does is rant and make to leave. I escort him even. Those few and certain steps by his side give birth to similarly few and certain decisions:

I can’t tell him;

It is too unusual for anyone to handle;

I will seem like a dramatic damaged girl. 

Noone likes damaged. So I wear my smile (it’s killer) and bid him farewell, part hating him for being so (my accusation) frivolous.

Then she comes along.  She doesn’t say a word.  Personally, I don’t think she needs to. Her disappointment is so acute I can taste it in the air streaming into my nostrils. I can’t wait for her to leave, because I have apologized, and my sorry measures up to my transgression as does a dim-witted nursery school child to a Greek philosophist.

When eventually the last one comes I am exhausted. I let myself wallow in self hate. I wish I had been wired better. I wonder why they won’t let me be a hermit- affect noone. I look at her. I think I see what she felt for me in an isolated slab of ice not far away. That is what I think separates our souls. She looks down and stomps away.

I am grateful to be alone. I hate myself for being seduced out of my solitude, rather going with the flow when I clearly am not invited to the dance. I am convinced I deserve for everything to go wrong like it has, and then change my mind.  I am just going by the rules, implied rules.

It takes so long to get back inside. I will get sick and I will hang out with death. Worst of all, they won’t understand. Until the moment they come to point a finger they won’t understand.

I like my soul in a soul jar.


Got the photo somewhere on facebook.
Addicted- Kelly Clarkson
Soul jar- Wangui Githu and Sandi Nambisia