Rest. In. Peace…

Faces are all blurry right now
Names are like quantum physics
Women deciphered by body parts
Sweat, spittle, tears, drinks

Each thrill sicker than the last
Deviant ‘sex-tremes’ redefining pleasure
Your body is a toxin
My body, a poison

Tonight it’s a different anomaly
Come, let us create taboos
I will debase you lovingly
Just because I like your tattoos

Where am I? Psyche ward or rehab?
I will never do this again
Someone call mummy… No, Rahab
Prayer or pleasure… Effin’ migraine!

You want to buy something I don’t got
You are looking for someone I am not
You need to feel alive, so you flirt with death
‘Reaper’s rollin’ in, inna hearse…
C’mon baby open your eyes…! Please!!

Advertisements

Dance With My Father

I laid my head on his broad chest, my arms around his muscular torso.

I felt his large hand ‘gently’ thumping my uncovered back, the space between my neck and where my wedding gown began.

Luther Vandross’, “Dance With My Father Again” was aptly playing through the monstrous sound systems DJ Snap had brought for my wedding.

From my peripheral, I could see Antoine standing close to mum. He looked unsure, it was his wedding day, yet his father in-law got the first dance… hahaha…

My mum looked on tolerantly… I guess the years had taught them all not to come between this daughter and her father.

As the song ended, he pulled away and gently kissed my forehead. He was still as handsome as always. Athletic too.
He wore his Armani tuxedo like second skin.

My father… El Presidento! I mean that literally, my dad is Mr President.

He has remained unchanged physically for as long as I can remember. It’s so bad that trash-talker’s have branded him a vampire. Some say he is a shape-shifter.
There is talk of his affiliation with The Watchers and some say even The Illuminati… Well…

I tend to agree… In a way…

Back then he drove a pearl green Nissan Pathfinder. I was maybe four years old.

He has always driven us to school. For as long as I can remember, on my way to school, dad and I always sang and prayed and talked and played every school day. He loved us unreservedly.

That morning, he wore black jeans under a flowing white jelabia (traditional native dress). Everything was normal. I was seated at the back and screaming songs as they played off his CD player.

We got to school and he parked across the building along the street.

As always he would clown a bit before opening the door behind the drivers seat to let me out.

School was for 8 am. But dad was always there by 7 am. I was usually the first student to school.

He was standing out there and making faces at me through the window when suddenly a car hit him.

It seemed to have come from nowhere. I screamed as his body was tossed in the air and then he hit the asphalt before rolling towards the other side of the street.

l looked and saw his white jelabia suddenly turn crimson with blood and dirty brown from dust, mud and dirt.

He was not moving.

I remember screaming “Papa!”… “Papa!!”

I can’t remember how long I screamed and cried. But it was a while.

The engine was still idling, music and the air-conditioning still on. I was frightened and confused.

Suddenly there was a ‘ratatat’ on the window and I whipped towards it, my hands wiping tears from my eyes.

My dad stood by the window.

He looked different. Like a good ghost. He was still dressed the same way, but he was a sparkling white.

I looked past him to where his body had fallen…he was still lying down there immobile.

Even though I was young, I knew this was not a good sign. So I tried to open the door to get to him… To them? It would not open… (Child lock).

Ratatat…

I looked up at dad’s ghost… He was pointing at something in front like on the seat. I slid toward the front and climbed into the drivers seat looking frantically about. I could not see anything he would want.

Ratatat…

I looked… He was by the drivers side window now still pointing… Toward the other seat?

Then I got it… His phone!

I snatched it up and held it toward his ghost… And he rewarded me with a wan smile.
But my face fell as he held up his hand… His usual gesture that meant, ‘wait’.
He closed his eyes as though in deep concentration… Opened them and looked at his phone.
Closed his eyes again, Papa looked like he was going to cry… Opened his eyes and looked at the phone again.

It looked like every time he closed his eyes, he faded. He was weakening.
By the fifth try, I could see through his ghost. I could see his body still bleeding out on the street and my school beyond him.

Then I noticed he had placed his right palm on the window for the first time since his apparition appeared… Again, though I was a kid I intuitively knew he had given up and required I place my palm on the window opposite his. I screamed out, “no!”

He was visibly taken aback by my action and he gazed solemnly at me for a few seconds… Eyes full of tears, I held his gaze… Then he shut his eyes again…

Immediately his phone started to ring, with my heart pounding I glanced up at him and he gestured that I pick up.

“Hello”…, I remember saying to whoever was calling,

“a car hit Papa and I think he is dead”…

“at my school”…I told the screaming lady that called.

By the time I looked up, Papa’s ghost was smiling at me, yet I wept. He was almost like smoke now. But he pointed to his phone again, and it rang once more.

I recognised her voice immediately. My grandmother. His mum. Bawling now, I sobbed out the story. She calmed me down and while we were still speaking, my mum and some uncles arrived within minutes of each other.

Dad was the victim of a freak hit and run accident. The driver did not stop and was never caught.

He broke one leg in two places. Several ribs. Ruptured his spleen. Broke a collarbone and his wrist.
In less than a year though, he was fully healed. To the amazement of everyone.

Only he and mum know the identity of the lady who called him that fateful day. She was the one that called mum. My parents never speak of that part of the incidence or of her. Ever.

I stopped calling him ‘Papa’ after that accident. He became ‘dad’. No reason.

Only he and I know what happened that fateful day. Well you do too (now). We have no need to speak of it.

We became friends, soulmates, confidants after that. Yes, and father and daughter.

He almost gave up and died, and I refused.

No big deal.

He has always loved big cats, guess he simply lost one of his nine lives.

“Please Be Advised…”

You play a game I am adept at.
’99’ have fallen; what is one more soul?!

To the goat give shrubbery.
For your input reap milk or flesh.

But the lion; he will take the goat
For your input, maybe your life.

I am fire. I am wind. I am water.
I can warm or burn
I can cool or destroy
I can refresh or drown.

Stroke or strike
Kiss or bite
Villain or hero
Romeo or Coolio?

You play a game I am adept at.
’99’ have fallen; what is one more soul?!

Time, Wealth & Health

The Three Last Wishes of Alexander the Great

Alexander, after conquering many kingdoms, was returning home. On the way, he fell ill and it took him to his death bed. With death staring him in his face, Alexander realized how his conquests,his great army, his sharp sword and all his wealth were of no consequence. He now longed to reach home to see his mother’s face and bid her his last adieu. But, he had to accept the fact that his sinking health would not permit him to reach his distant homeland. So, the mighty conqueror lay prostrate and pale, helplessly waiting to breathe his last.

He called his generals and said, “I will depart from this world soon, I have three wishes, please carry them out without fail.”

With tears flowing down their cheeks, the generals agreed to abide by their king’s last wishes.

1) “My first desire is that”, said Alexander, “My physicians alone must” carry my coffin.”

2) After a pause, he continued, “Secondly, I desire that when my coffin is being carried to the grave, the path leading to the graveyard be strewn with gold, silver and precious stones which I have collected in my treasury”.

3) The king felt exhausted after saying this. He took a minute’s rest and continued. “My third and last wish is that both my hands be kept dangling out of my coffin”.

The people who had gathered there wondered at the king’s strange wishes. But no one dared bring the question to their lips.. Alexander’s favorite general kissed his hand and pressed them to his heart.

“O king, we assure you that all your wishes will be fulfilled. But tell us why do you make such strange wishes?”

At this Alexander took a deep breath and said:”I would like the world to know of the three lessons I have just learnt. Lessons to be learnt from last 3 wishes of King Alexander…I want my physicians to carry my coffin because people should realize that no doctor on this earth can really cure any body. They are powerless and cannot save a person from the clutches of death. So let not people take life for granted.

The second wish of strewing gold, silver and other riches on the path to the graveyard is to tell People that not even a fraction of gold will come with me. I spent all my life Greed of Power, earning riches but cannot take anything with me. Let people realize that it is a sheer waste of time to chase wealth.

About my third wish of having my hands dangling out of the coffin, I wish people to know that I came empty handed into this world and empty handed I go out of this world”.

With these words, the king closed his eyes.Soon he let death conquer him and breathed his last. . . .

LESSONS TO LEARN :

Remember, your Health is in your own hands, look after it. Wealth is only meaningful if you can share and also enjoy while you are still alive, kicking & healthy. What you do for yourself, dies with you. But what you do for others will live for ever.

Leave the Legacy behind.

After Love Lost

“Death is the shortsighted view; nothing ever truly dies. It simply lives on in another form”

Where do broken hearts go? Where is love lost gone? Surely both love and heart are somewhere when they are rejected.

I have always advised that we be careful when we create love. Love does not die. It may be abused, misunderstood, diminished or discredited for a myriad of reasons. But love is eternal. Love is forever.

I do not know (or care really) why it left you. I believe that that is not the point. What you do with that tiny ember left is the real issue. You could let it burn to ash, or add a bit of tinder and rekindle the spark into a mighty conflagration. Who knows what selfishness brought you to this point? Or naïveté? Or just a series of unfortunate events?

I believe in moving forward. Agree to disagree on a couple of issues. Accept who you are, your inherent weaknesses and flaws. Recognise their limitations, and focus on their strengths. Above all, be quiet more often and listen to them more. Either ‘them’ past or present. Or both.

You do not have to fight. It is quite unnecessary. Yet you do have to fight. Emotions are dynamic and reactive. Flawed by their very existence. Expect contention, but respond in peace. Two people should not be angry at the same time…especially two lovers.

Even in ultimate separation or divorce, being civil and friendly will heal you. Bear in mind that love never dies. Who knows what the sisters of fate, or your very heart, may cause you to do again? Regardless?

Let there be love. Free yourself from hate and bitterness. It is not worth the trouble. Stop being self centered. Place yourself in their shoes; and even when you are certain that they are idiots, love your idiot passionately. They may have had the same conclusion about you eons ago.

Lovealways.

The Ladies of Rage

“I am ready…are you?”

I will never forget the first time I heard those words. Every time thereafter, the words still leave me feeling like I have been rubbed the wrong way. A bit like a standoff between a cat and a dog.

About two decades ago, I was in an altercation with a very unruly fellow. Totally uncouth; his mouth did call for blows, and his mouth did receive the said blows. He had the worst social skills my young life had ever encountered. He had no sense of modicum or decorum. He was obstinate in his views and I, irascible. It was not a pretty beat down.

I hate to fight. But the chap would not stop taunting, cursing and swearing. Maybe it is because I was raised Baptist, I elected to put the fear of God in him.

I hit him hard! Severally. In desperation he picked up a rock and let it fly. I reflexively turned my back and tucked my head to my chest…the rock hit me like a rubber bullet (a tale for another day). I spun around, adrenaline numbing the pain. My eyes caught a castaway table leg and I picked it up and advanced.

He knew. In retrospect I saw it in his eyes. He was going to be permanently damaged. Onlookers knew too. I heard their silent “oh god no!” As I closed in on my quarry.

She knew too. Because she was suddenly between us. Switchblade held at waist level. His last line of defence.

I took in her average height. Attractive features blurred slightly from a life poorly lived. Her eyes stopped me dead in my tracks. They were devoid of emotion. Steely. Focused on me. Her lips were open, chipped front teeth bared.

“Move or I’ll make you sorry” I remember hissing.

She answered me not a word.

Remarkable on her part. Because back then, my reputation required she be turned to toast.

“Are you crazy? I can make your life a living hell.” I threatened.

Still the stare.

“Do you want to die? Here and now?” The situation was getting embarrassing. Coward was actually comfortable behind this urchin.

“I am ready; are you?” She countered evenly.

The gauntlet thrown. My bloods boiled Vesuvius… I was going to Mount Krakatoa this couple!
The intellectual in me fortunately showed up. Reappraised the situation, and I stood down.

Jane and I have been friends for decades now. Potty-mouth was her brother (yes, past tense. Yet not by my hand. A less forgiving man I hear). She was Queen of a female sorority on campus. I have heard horrifying tales of their initiation ceremonies. Their inhuman hazing of recruits. And proclivity for martyrdom. Very extreme young women.

Here’s to The Ladies of Rage…and to queen Jane… You’re still alive darling?! There is (definitely) a God that loves you for some reason I can’t fathom. Lol…#bighug#

Zainab Ahmed

She died quite tragically over a decade ago.

Quite literally in my arms. The details; I choose to have selective amnesia about. Suffice it to say that her passing was tragic. In deed and indeed.

What I can tell you about her though, is that she was slim. Lithe. Yet well-endowed. The compound adjective a couple of words back, only obvious to one other person alive, apart from Zainab…and maybe the persons that performed her final bathing (Islamic) rites.

The thing about Zainab was convoluted. she was larger than life. You only needed to see her once, you would remember her forever. I knew her better than most.

I have been out of town a few days now. Just flew in hours ago.

For security reasons, I cannot say where I have been. She died in that town. The town had roads, alleys, streetlights, and people though. If that helps.

I am bit of a fitness nut, so every evening at about 8 p.m, I would take brisk thirty-minute walks.

I have been away since Thursday. I commenced my ‘spirited’ routine on Friday.

Yesterday, as the days before, I had just jogged across a busy road, rife with unreasonable motorists, kept the pace under a flyover, scanned my right for oncoming traffic in a microsecond, and covered that road in a few seconds. i decelerated into my power-walk as soon as my Nike’s touched the sidewalk.

I had by now approached a hard right, so I slowed. The second I turned the corner, my hairs prickled. Maybe it was because the street was dark? No! Something was off. I slowed even more and narrowed my eyes as my visual purple readjusted slowly to the poor lighting.

Then I saw her. Walking just in front of me. I know Zainab’s sashay. I know that plain, white t-shirt. I knew that black skirt and the way she wore her braided hair. Above all, my nose knows. It never fails me. I know that particular whiff of Gold Oudh…it was made specifically for her. It is not commercially available.

Light-headed and hyperventilating, I walked on, following. She was about two meters ahead and turned right suddenly. I was at that intersection in about three seconds.

It was a dead end! My original path lay ahead. i halted and stared in awe,

‘Zee?’ I remember calling out. her fragrance still hung heavy in the one meter by one meter dead end.

Nothing. Zilch.

I slowly turned back the way I came.

And for the first time in twenty three years, and finally, I wept for Zainab. I mourned her passing finally.

R.I.P Zee…

I don’t know what yesterday was about Zee, but, I see you.