Monthly Archives: November 2016

Harmattan 2016

Harmattan (source: nairaland.com)

Shadow,

How have you been? It’s been aeons since I last reached out to you. Since I last reached in to you.

But you have always been there somehow, haven’t you. You faithfully stalk the soul. Lovingly following your owner. Through his busy days and dark nights.

I have been silent because I went away on a trip. I have been busy being stranded on this trip. But you were still there somehow, reminding me of what was inside me. Reminding me that I was not nothing.

I went out tonight like I had done many nights before. And imagine the very simple joy that I had seeing the dusty mist. This is what heralds the harmattan. And I fondly thought of you.

Make no mistake, the rain has its magic. But the rains of this year met me at night. The dark days. And I was not even home. I had travelled lost into the night, working away my bones and blood, alone and lonely, comforted with the numbness only the living dead enjoy. I had travelled dead into the night. Living like one who does not live. So, when the rain came, it was like a flood. I barely escaped with my life –figuratively and literally. Never mind that I was properly drenched. I stoically looked forward to the relief of home. The rain was faithful to the mission life had given it. It made a frank mess on my hut of a life. I had slippery clay everywhere and nothing made a lot a sense. Many things made very little sense. I could not reach out to you. I could not reach in to you. I was just A-W-A-Y.

Harmattan however did not fail me. Hence my coming here tonight. Harmattan blows dust that settles on my flesh like a soft protective cocoon and cold that cools my blood. I remember how I came to be. I remember how life all started. From dust. Harmattan does not fail me. It comes and kills the trees. The green leaves turn brown and most fall away. The whole ground is littered continuously and human intervention won’t outwit the downpour of death. Death fills the air. The trees leaves die. The animals run away. The whole region is bare. The sights, sounds and smells of death do not fail me. They put me at ease. They remind me of how fleeting everything is. They remind me of how I must take time away from my toils and cares and dying, and focus on the state of existence –the frailty of existence itself. They remind me not to focus on the frailty of existence itself. But to live for life.

 

Shadows,

No, I am not deep.

Instead, I probably am shallow –for something as the weather change to be what turns me on. I must be shallow for waiting for external changes to bring me back to you.

 

I am not the best of the pile. Please accept me the way I am.

I wait to see how long I stay at home this time before the wanderlust maggot starts eating into my soul again.

I hope I stay this time.

I hope my soul does not get lost out in the jungle of life this time.

 

Yours,

 

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coming clean

source: gettyimages.com

 

It amazes me
Your expression
When you strut about
Like you own the dunghill

The dunghill
Is where men need to go
Where they need to clear out their lives
When they need to get rid of the old
Oh yes, they need you
They need you for such things nonetheless

Great mistress of the night
You are the lover and husband of our dark habits
The mother of the monsters growing inside us
The nurse of the festering sores
That mock our daytime puritan act
You keep them decaying
So we never stop needing you
For such things nonetheless

You give meaning to our addictions
You give us shame to carry like babies
And what terrible nannies we make
Sooner or later when the babies drop
And the skeletons you hid for us in the wardrobe fall out
You are the one we run to

All we have become we owe to you
When our life stories are told
In the secret cinemas
To fellow decadents like us
They are never complete without you
The mark you have given us
This mark of corruption
The dirty stinking clothes you stacked up for us

You are very important to us

You walk about proudly
In this dunghill
Where all you are
Is the keeper of dirt
You own us

But
What then happens
When we wake from our slumber
And start washing our clothes
When we take our wounds to a doctor
When we clear out our closets

When your power over us is taken away
And we do not bow or cower
Before you in devoted slavery
When we forever stop making that booty call
And actually start loving the light
When we stop hiding away in the darkness
Afraid to be seen for how we really look
When we finally begin
Feeling so clean and free
Freedom from you
Freedom from ourselves

What will you do
When we finally come clean?