Writing is hard!
Sometimes, an idea comes to mind
like a strong itch in the back
the one that needs you to scratch it vigorously
or rub your back against a rough surface like a goat
but you ignore it because it's just that; an idea.

On a random day, you get inspired
and finally decide to write something
because it has been months since your last piece.
You decide that maybe you will write about the rain
about how you longed for it as a child.
Because then, you would take off your clothes
and run around singing nursery rhymes
unbothered by how you would be shivering later that night.

But you are an adult now, and dancing in the rain no longer excites you.
You now see rain as an enemy, an impediment to your adult plans.
You had wanted to go out with friends to an open concert
but now have to choose between sleeping and folding your clothes.
Besides, when it rains, your electricity is disconnected
and you have to endure hours of darkness
as you wait for that perennial fault to be fixed.
So, you see, you cannot write about the rain.

Or maybe you will write about flowers.
About how you loved plucking them on your way to school.
About how their scent filled the air in your father's compound when it rained.
About how you rubbed the red and yellow petals
on those love letters that you sent to your crush
the one who snorted everytime she laughed.
But now, you no longer love the smell of flowers.
because they remind you of death
and the unending pain and uncertainty that comes with it.
The last time you held a flower was when you were plucking its petals throwing them one by one into the grave
as you sent off your best friend who died in a car accident.
So, you see, you cannot write about flowers.

Or maybe you will write about love
But then again, what can you really share
besides the fantasy you always hold onto every night before you sleep.
The one of you playing with your daughter in the tall grass
and your wife taking pictures to frame for your grand children to see.
However, the last time you were in love, you almost died
because she stabbed you after going through your phone
and seeing those messages you sent to Natasha.
The one with the eyes like those of a calf
The ones that you looked into and did not know what to say.
But you found the words and those got you stabbed.
So you see, you cannot write about love.

Finally, you decide that you will write about God
About how his love is the purest you have known
and how it has kept you standing even when your feet became clay
You want to write about how this love formed scars of your wounds
and touched your failing heart when the machines in your hospital room beeped in monotony.
You want to write about how when your lungs almost ran dry
a new breeze was blown into them bringing you back from the edge of the abyss.
After a few lines of writing, you realise that you are unable to put your thoughts into words.
What you have written down feels disrespectful
It is a grain of sand compared to the mountain you had envisioned.
So you tear the papers and flush those thoughts down the toilet.
You then get up from your desk and pick a cold beer from your old fridge
And do what you have always done best; drink!

©Maathe

At the end of the dusty road
where the road yawns with boredom at the stillness,
you would meet a man.
One who walked like he did not care,
laughed loud to hide the tears behind his eyes
and the chest pain from his heartbreaks.
He also scratched his thick beard
just so you would be distracted from its length when he laughed.
Watching him laugh was a sight to behold
for he shook his head up and down
as his jaws tightened with the force of sad stories.

In the afternoons, he sat in his rocking chair
because his bed with the thin mattress had hardened his back,
from the thoughts of his failed relationship.
You see, his woman had promised him, seven fine children.
But she had left him for his best friend, the one who drove a noisy Subaru.
At night, he spent hours staring at the ceiling
twitching his face in thought as if to ask questions.
But, the ceiling as always remained unexpressive and silent.
Providing no solutions for it was made of concrete.
And when he slept,
he did not sleep like a child after breastfeeding.
He instead slept like a man with a ransom on his head.
Today, he sits and pauses for a picture beneath an art piece
the one he received when he left his father's house
to venture on his own because he had become a man.
As the camera clicks away, he smiles and freezes
to give the viewer the illusion that his life is perfect.
But deep down, all he needs is a cold Tusker and a loud laugh
that would make him forget how his back hurt
when he lay face up in bed every night
wondering when his big break would come.

Every morning, I walked past her with a violin in my ears
Like everyone else, I never greeted her
I have no idea why
Maybe it is because of the peace on her face
peace I had not felt in ages
Or maybe it was the wrinkles on her face
that held the stories of her many years of life
unlike mine which showed the failure in my youth.
She always worked with grace; something I admired
Like an angel, she picked up the leaves from the road
and with sublime efficiency, tucked them away forever
just so the music played by the tyres on the road could be uniform.
I always wondered if she got paid
or worked pro-bono because of the harmony it brought her
or this was an escape from the demons of her past
that rendered her awake so early while the sun was still asleep.
Did she ever wake up to the laughter of her children
or the clucking of chicken?
I wondered daily.
The more I did, the more I got bothered
and realized there was no need to care.
Would it make me a better man if I found out
that she had children that cared for her
or a lover that embraced her when she returned home
and rubbed her feet in a bowl of warm water?
I did not need to know.
I am just another man on the street
On a journey whose destination I do not know.
Only God knows the color of the next day's sun

My face longs for the rays of the evening sun
for the days have been dark and the nights filled with melancholy.
The sky has been dancing to slow songs of despair
and the wind as always gentle with misery.
It has been long since I heard the cry of a baby
or tasted the banana wine at the old man's bar.
The evidence is now unmatched
I have lost the sense of youth.
All I know now is the sound of my fingers
making endless love to the keyboard
in the guise of changing the future.
But why change something you do not know?
The failure to get that answer bothers me
for I do not subscribe to "Ignorance is bliss"
I am not ordinary like other men
I shall have to keep coming to this precipice
until I see the moon smiling in the water

For a long time now, my mind has been in prison
In the beginning, I enjoyed it and basked in the seclusion
but with time, the claustrophobia took control
and the words started to scream at me.
That is what makes me talk to myself.
The pleasure of insanity is insatiable.
This lyrical madness is inborn
and my legs are too heavy to run.
I will therefore sit down
and give birth to a story that will brighten the sun,
fill the sky with tears of joy
and give new names to the angels.
The earth shall tremble when I put my foot down
for I bring forth something it has not seen before

Looking back into the past always warms my heart
A child so lovable I was
Every time I spoke, my mother smiled
for she knew I was a little genius; her baby 'Einstein'
I challenged many to feed the hunger of my young mind
and with the wrath of a starved tiger,
I crushed them with pleasure.
With this, I blossomed like a mustard seed.
Embracing the gentility of a crested crane,
I made many friends.
My siblings always cackled with laughter at my jokes
for my humor surpassed that of a he-monkey.
The rain was my ever faithful friend
for in it, I danced my sorrows and fears away
hoping the next day's sun would grace my heart with it's rays.
And at night, I slept like a prince
hypnotized by the dreams of greatness to come

Down this street, I walk
my legs soaring with pain
My throat is dry like a dead wound
since the sun has quenched his thirst with me captive
My toes curl with pain as my muscles wail with fatigue.
However, I cannot stop moving
for where I seek, the sun shines with a smile
and the moon dances peacefully
like a mother soothing her baby to sleep
while the birds sing songs
that change the wrinkles of the elders into laughter lines.
The utopia is indeed exquisite.
However, before me, I see a people dead
I shudder in disgust at their ignorance.
Their indifference pierces my soul
and folds my face into a ball of rage.
For how long shall we be held captive in our own homes?
For how long shall our property be taken by the less deserving?
Those that do not even know
how much of our blood we lost to nourish the earth
and bring our structures to life.
How long will the children spend walking naked
and drowning in their own *****
while their parents queal in fumes of *****.
We need to wake up,
wear the spirit of a soldier during his last battle
give our enemy the fight of our lives
and then, we can lick our finger
to turn the pages to a new life
beyond the dark horizon.