The HONY blog has me thinking that my list of priorities is skewed. Everything on the list should definitely remain on the list, however, a re-ordering is required.
I have one job. To be happy.
You know how it first starts? With a word
Waaay before he even glances at you, you are already imagining his hand clutching your thighs as he reaches down to unbuckle his belt
Frantically you help him unbutton his shirt while you focus hard to remember when the last time you had your period
This is how it always starts
Before he even touches you
You want to man trap the poor man into admitting he wants to have babies with you
Waaay after he has babies with your sister you wanted him for yourself
Then you go right ahead and have some without him, you go right ahead and claim that black looking Sudanese colored baby is your white boyfriends
Maaaaan! That, my friend is the real man trap
Ever wondered why the suicide rate in young teenage boys is so high? Well it will be after the young teenage boys read this
This is how it always starts, with a touch, a smile, a hello, A “can I have your number” vibe
He makes sure you know that he wants you, he can’t live another day without hearing your voice on the mobile phone, “why you no reply my whasaap chat? I see you tweeting”
He changes his status on the Facebook to “complicated” for you
Gosh Darn! You think. He loves me for real.
And deep within me I always want to know what’s in it for me
The selfish part of me wants to know if I will dump him or if he will leave me for my sister
He will claim he didn’t know she was my sister, because I have many. He just slipped and fell into her vah-jay-jay, heh! Abeg!
and I will burn his car and drive off flipping him the bird
This is how it always fucking starts
Today maybe it will turn out different, maybe I will hitch my skirt higher, rouge my lips brighter and bat my eyelashes longer and see if he will let me stay longer than past 10am
If he lets me I will clean his house and make him lunch or maybe dinner
Let me Google recipes
First let me get him to buy me dinner then maybe ask him to kiss me
He never does that
Maybe today we can talk, first.. or find a bed
If he doesn’t then maybe, just maybe I can cut off something he needs.
Alhamdullilah! we are not where were 2 years ago.. we have become better and stronger yes?
Two years ago I got a few friends together and managed to buy Iftar for the Women of Langata Women’s Prison. I hadn’t planned anything for this year but I am reminded of my duty of Sadaqa during this holy month (and throughout the year).
We are giving back, but I cannot do it all alone my share would be small but if many of us came together and contributed we would feed the community in prison for the entire month and still have some left over for the Idd celebration.
How to do it?
Well we would appreciate you just sending anything you have, but we would prefer your presence as well. you can;
1. buy fruits, vegetables, vegetable oil, meat, chicken, Unga- Ugali/chapati, Charcoal then come on the day and give them out to the prisoners
2. Make your contribution via Mpesa and we will buy the food stuff and share with the prisoners.
Any bit will help and remember just your presence, your touch, your being there makes all the difference to somebody.
I read an article on Thursday morning. It said: ”The victim had been sliced open from her stomach to her genitals and dumped.” The radio is full of this story. Full of politicians and posers, trying to outdo one another. Like funeral criers. But it will end, the show. And there will be marches and petitions. There will be statements and rage. But it will happen again. Until we are inured to shock. It will happen again. Until our bones are worn into dust and our teeth crushed into the sand. It will happen and happen. Until we invent a way to stop being women. Until we find a way for our blood to no longer bleed between our legs. As long as we exist, we will be raped.
So, no, I will not march. I don’t believe my marching will stop this war. I will cry, as I have been already this morning. And maybe, I will begin to feel my way out of the lurching, heavy knowing after I have spoken with others. With the mothers and the sisters, the brothers and fathers – those like me, who have girls.
There is only this: a dead, hollow knowing that has always been knocking at my heart. From the minute she was born, it fell in step with the rhythm of my breath: to raise a girl in this world, to raise her strong and healthy and proud, to ensure that she survives and then to insist ferociously that she laugh and dance and think and dream, is to choose the most heartbreaking and joyous path. It is to tempt fate every single day, it is to fear that her breath will be strangled by a stranger. It is to live with the horrible possibility that this could be your child.
Anene was raped and mutilated because she was a girl. It was her vagina and her breasts that they wanted to destroy. It was her walk and her talk. It was her girl-ness. These parts of her were broken and sliced and pulled apart, not by monsters, but by friends. Each of her 10 fingers were broken.
Ten fingers and 10 toes. I kiss my baby girl goodnight. Ten fingers and 10 toes, I counted them when she was born just to be sure that she was real. I found love in the spaces between each. I cried at the weight of her. Tiny and strong.
Tonight, I will kiss her neck in the bath and she will wiggle away from me. ‘Stop it Mama’, and I will pinch her wet bum and she will sparkle. Tonight, she will be safe. But they will not stop killing girls.
And I will die defending her. Let them wear my bones into dust. Let them crush my teeth into the sand. Only this will stop the war. That we be prepared to die – our bodies barricades against the fingers that should not be there. The knives that slit. The guns that lodge. Let them lodge in me. In us.
Anene’s mother said that if she hadn’t seen her shoes, she wouldn’t have known that it was her own child. Her intestines? Her intestines.
God help us. And if God will not, Let the women be the barricades. The men, surely will follow.
Here’s another dark piece from the archives! I guess its appropriate for how I feel most Mondays, how I feel most days..
I smelled of crazy as I sang song lyrics
While collecting daisies
From the corner of my gravesite
Impossible it seemed to me but
I chattered with the chittering termites
As they bit new holes in my newly decayed flesh
I turned to see through the gape where my eyes once saw wonder
So twisted, so dark, too damp
I wandered around wondering, do the dead mourn the living?
I found big, bald and ugly and shook him for an answer
I peeled off another nail
and continued writing to the tune of my screaming soul
What an absurd distraction, I thought to myself
This will never do
All this hell and damnation is giving me writers block
Yet in this place I call
The way station
Delivery only! it screams loudly in black and blue
Delivery only, this way to Gods bosom, your only way out
This way to Lucifer’s holiday inn, in big bold red hue
I stopped and stared, which lane to follow? Which holds true for me?
Here and there questions,
Big, bald and ugly turns around and hands me a key
I turn to A flutter of a wing, Some music, some Tupac
Then I spot, Fadhili Williams, Franco, Marvin Gaye
Focus… this is so annoying
So I wrote on determine to diarize every single detail of my own death
I wrote more
Describing, looking, intimating, explaining, seeing…
All the while writing… dying.. crippled fingers demanding rest
I scooped flesh after condemned rotting flesh
Back into my now melting chest
So there was an afterlife and this was it?
All of us together in one train station!
Heading this way or that other way
So I found a bench
So disappointed was I that I was determined to finish writing my own death
I wrote until my fingers broke off in emaciated decay
I wrote my own way back to bleeding life
I wrote until I came back to write some more
I came back to write you your own death!
In the passenger seat of your car, I ask you what
color the burnt orange of the leather seats are and you tell me
burnt orange. My cheeks in the rearview mirror are the color
of burning, and when I look down at my hands, they’re so pale
that I forget for a moment that I own flesh over these bones.
The fog is so thick that I could lose you in it again, you say —
and I put my hand on your hand until I mix our fingers up.
There is a shipwreck between your ribs and it took eighteen years
for me to understand how to understand your kind of drowning.
The divorce papers say Christmas and July. That’s all you were given
to touch the cheeks of your small daughters and try to tell them in
smaller and smaller words how absence does not mean
The first and last time I saw my parents together was in a
parking lot at McDonalds. They didn’t speak to each other, didn’t
look each other in the eye — only handed me between them
like an insult.
When I got into my father’s car, he handed me a Happy Meal toy
like an apology.
There are people who cannot be held quietly. There are screams
that are never externalized. If I looked at the photo albums of your
past twenty years, all I would find are decibel meter graphs of
phone calls and the intensity of your silence as you sat
smoking cigarettes in the garage.
Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, scientists
have finally proven.
All it does is make you that much more aware of how many
feet it takes to walk a mile.
There is a shipwreck between your ribs. You are a box with
fragile written on it, and so many people have not handled you
And for the first time, I understand that I will never know
how to apologize for being
one of them.
As my first post of 2013 I feel ashamed to say this was inspired by someone else’s words. Words which when written down inspire a totally new and different meaning. Don’t you ever wish sometimes you could pen your thoughts down exactly how you think them? well I guess that is what Twitter is for..
As your austere love washes over me I write this not as a vindication of your non- love but as an opportunity to let my thoughts be heard
From the rooftops to the highest peak I scream let my thoughts be heard, directly translating to
For fucksake shut up and let me talk for once
Just this once, let ME speak!
I use pen and paper, I send emails, I type texts and direct broken down clowns to your office to sing songs of gaiety to you and yet it’s never enough
Who I’m I to compete with shadows of a memory you refuse to let go of?
You capture glorious moment after moment with me only to turn turncoat and run after a smidgen of affection from him?
Old lovers come with the price of affection sterility, you know
we revert to the past not find solutions to the future but to quell the uncertainty of the present
as the past is what led us here
the past only serves to remind us of who we used to be, not who we want to sleep with now
and that can’t be a bad thing
I’m damaged goods as well… I come scarred, worn out with my own doubts and hang ups
Acknowledge me!! LOVE ME!!
With you by my side I outrun me every day
Keeping time with you keeps me breathless
I want to be with you but I can’t, maybe I don’t want to, but I can’t leave, but I should
I would battle forever, but you keep making me feel like it’s an impossible war.
Let’s just get back to loving.
Everything else seems pointless.