Three Years.

Untitled

Three years. I’d be joining Nursery school would have joined Nursery School today. I can almost hear myself sing all the nursery rhymes. I can almost feel myself sharing all my fancy day 1 food. Have been a giver since day 1, literally.


Approximately three years ago I moved on from Blogger to the fancier sister WordPress. And like they say, “the rest has been quite a story.”

I’ve made buddies, lost some *those that feel like you almost wrote about them, almost kissed and told, yet it was just imagination triggered by a moment some time back.

I’ve written nice pieces and better pieces, I’ve procrastinated once too much, I’ve been hit by the block. I’ve got past the 300 Follower Mark. I take pleasure in knowing that I can share with a number that big. And humbled for most read, and some reply, comment.

I pray and hope, even promise to write more. To be bolder, to swim beyond the reef and to write more. I promise to try to be Me.

 

Ayyy

Little Pretty Woman
Blessed with a bosom capped with twin peaks
Adorned with dark thick tipped nipples
Lance them by the edges of my mouth
Let it joustle with the thrust of my tongue

Take me deep into it
That little place they call sin
The enclave hushed by desire
Major Arcana cards held aloft
Where you’re High Priestess and I obey

Let me touch your thin veil of awareness
Where touch is forever more
Envelop me with your nether lips
Warm embraces the hedonist never forgets
Engulf me in swatches of sodden covers
Palpitating with a certain accord to the pink

Little curvy woman
Blessed with a derriere so bountiful
Juggled by the sway of your hips
Lay me on your altar of euphoria
Pierce me with the dagger of your eyes
Cleanse me with the taste of your lips

Even as the furnance that is my loins burns
Erecting the tower that is this meat
Babel reaching for the stars inside the slit
Veins filling the shaft with venom
Don’t cool it down for no remonstrance

Despite the flush of my cheeks
Teach me the ways of your castle
That I may lay my life down to defend
Be my Delilah, this strength I give away
This hair, eat away

Daughter of gods
Let me adjusting the bra that contours your bust
Let me take you from behind
Not like the dog I am, but a god
Let me into your infinite wetness
Across the waves of your ocean
Animate my desire in your well of creation

Impale me with your long sharp one
Bruises deep burgundy like fine wine
The colors you place onto my body
Soothen it with your warm wet tongue
And the littl whispers down my ear

Allow me to abseil those twin peaks
So I embrace their dark tipped cupolas
Grinding and winding down like an funambulist
Let me overturn your mound
Tending the sweet spot. Of pleasure
Tendrils convulsing the cradle that is your body
Hold on tight, this is us.No names, just pleasure

lovulets- Love and rivulets…

Love-Landscape-Silhouette-Isolated-800px

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
In the desert, where love wasn’t supposed to grow
Pinch sleep out of me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Underneath the peeble by the river
Talk some sense to me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
As the bra and the panties hit the bedroom floor
Won’t you just pray for me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Under the moonlight as she lit up to make clouds
And then she passed to me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
One knock on her one room door
And the eyes locked it up

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Stood up
She picked the flower and gave to me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
At the hostel sinks
She sprinkled water at me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
It was handed to me
Mean guy shouldn’t have left her with me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
A jacket away
And she was truly the one for me

I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be
Right in front of me
Remind me where it was supposed to be

Love-Landscape-Silhouette-Isolated-2400px

Bambi Nyanzi

Stella Nyanzi is still held. Much as i don’t condone her utterances, i abhor her incarceration.
She has rights, and her rights should be respected.
In a country like Uganda where everything has been gazetted for a select few, rights should be all that we have left but, do we?


Well, what to do!

Plug in ear phones and… Renegades ~ X Ambassadors


Run away-ay with me
Lost souls in revelry
Running wild and running free
Two of us, you and me
All it takes to make one last stand.

And I say
Hey, hey hey hey
See us living like we’re renegades

Long live the pioneers
Rebels and mutineers
Go forth and have no fear
Come close and lend an ear
#FreeNyanzi #FreeUsAll

All hail the underdogs
All hail the peasants
All hail the outlaws
The proletariat and the ‘less than thats’.

It’s our time to make a move
It’s our time to make amends
It’s our time to break the rules
Let’s begin…

And I say
Hey, hey hey hey
To hell with living like we’re renegades.


gettyimages-666842650

Once Upon a Time…

Once upon a time, there was a man; who fell in love with a woman. They got married had children, and lived happily ever after…


As kids, stories were such a five-finger exercise. So smooth, so penny-plain and so subtle. Then growing up happened. Curiosity set in, many a cat died, the cats with in us. Schrodinger’s too.

Adam and Eve eating an apple metamorphosed into something bigger. You start to wonder how thighs come into a story so pristine.

Little wonders about what Jack and Jill where doing up that hill, and how the well could be up, not down the valley.


Stories ceased to make sense, as we drowned in novels, belly-flopped deep into meaningless books, got lost in Mangas. With each text read, a realm of Sunyata. A rabbit hole with a trap for light at the end of the tunnel.

e37505cf2b996795732ff01f24ae1d88_books-cute-illustration-cute-books_400-499


But still there remained that crave to read. To feed our little minds with something, anything. Twitter and Facebook happened, blogs too. And Snapchat and Instagram were invited to the party. And it was lit. As it was intimated that, as the Social Media platforms are food for the eyes, books and in particular short story books were food for the mind and the soul. So ensnaring…

One thing that’s eerie about stories, and mostly short stories is how quickly they can shape your surroundings, life and emotions.  Maybe you start reading one over your lunch break and, if it’s the right one, before that peanut butter cup you bought for dessert even has a chance to finish its melting shape-shift into some kind of sugary cement, the whole world has been destroyed around you and then rebuilt, and then remodeled into something outlandish, Museveni has retired and Nelson Mandela resurrected. Nothing is quite the same again. Ohhh, until it ebbs away.

This happens whether you like it or not. The best short stories haunt you for days and weeks. They take you to a dimension you can feel but can neither live in nor touch. Great stories exercise this violent beauty on you in a variety of ways: some by making an absurd world familiar (or vice versa), some with a slow burn, some with a voice that colonizes your thoughts. Some do it quietly, almost without you even noticing, and some do it with high wire acts of imagination or intellect that make you into a breathless witness.

The trick, then, is finding the right story, one that is capable of such a thing. This is no easy task. Tastes differ, of course, and it can be confusing to spot the small boat of a great story on the wide sea of fiction. What any reader can offer you in terms of guidance is actually the same thing that any good writer can offer you with the story itself: a way of saying, This is what moved me and made me feel strange and alive in some way; here, why don’t you give it a try?


I could say it’s the same with Music. Find a song, and it takes your soul through every valley with all sorts of shadows, of course you fear nothing then for the beat is your comfort.


 

trash.

I say it’s a bit narrow for a Trish to call all Men, trash. I’m like, don’t you see it! It’s all clear. In the medieval times, from the Anglo-Frisian dialects came the word ‘trash’ as a past tense of trish. I won’t say what ‘trish’ meant then, for you can guess; as I can, that you know what I mean already, just kidding.

But I’m kidding less about all Men being trash, all men are. It’s so true. It’s written in the sky, on the land; and in the sea, it’s everywhere, you just have to look closely to see the inscribing.
Some have it all written all over them like Mayan tattoos, others; like that mark on Cain’s forehead and others have it latent. You need to put them in a dark room, do the Infra Red; extra X-ray on them, and bang, “Oh my God there it is, the mark.” The Trash Mark. The ‘I thought you were different’ mark. The mark that conquered all.The one mark to rule them all.

See, like an item on a conveyor belt in a big mechanized factory, you get stamped with that mark soon as you pass via the conveyor belt. Dang, there it is. It’s not the birth mark. It’s that little worm attached to a little sack between those two little thighs.
From the day you pass through those big pretty thighs to when you enter some other big pretty thighs, your destiny is well written, it’s clear. You’re trash. Don’t even argue about it. No one is assuming anything Caitlyn, no one.

It’s not something you ask for. It’s something you are born with. It’s not something you can avoid be. It is something you’ll be as long as anyone says you are. After all Trish thinks so. You’re trash. What?

So, don’t let it get to you, it’s who you are. Just be the best You, you can be.
Be the best trash you can be. Be that good that you’ll enter the mall and everyone turns their heads and is like “Oh, there goes. That big ol’ Trash.”

Don’t play girls’ hearts, I’ll buy you beer or balloons play with those.
Because still, whether you play or don’t play, or play it safe, somehow you’ll yo-yo. You’ll hurt someone, justifiably or not. Intentionally or not. Or they’ll hurt just because you play it uncomfortably nice.

It’s like being in a chemistry laboratory, titrating chemicals and all. Any drop has an effect, it’ll make it an acid or a base. You don’t stop the drop just because you’re uncertain of what’s to come, do you? And still you won’t know what’ll come. If it’s an acid, you’re trash. If it’s a base, still you are trash. That won’t save you. Blue pill or red pill, you’re trash.

But still, don’t be an ass. that will make you dirty trash. And you needn’t be. That’s stinky trash. Not Cool. Don’t be that one who lies, who fights, who beats. That’s pathetic. Lucifer hates competition. Be a nice, awesome, stupendous piece of trash.

Much as they say Good Trash finish last. Just be the trash that finishes first. Finish first just don’t finish quick. For you know, it’s never about you, it’s about they that safely dispose of you. They own you and you gots to be in check. They say, any trash is as good as the disposer.Be that good.

Cling on to that, accept that sometimes you do stuff that makes you trash. Well sometimes you hide it and other times no one sees it. But you know it. So own it.

But it’s the way of the world. It’s what you do that makes you some typa trash. For Women are trash too. That’s it. That’s life.


 

 “Please don’t judge me for selling my body at 5000 UGX.” #SexWorkerDiaries

I think I’ve become too emotional. But when haven’t I been. Stories of Poverty, Suffering break my heart and my tear ducts as well.
One thing that I always think about as I pass by the ladies of the night on my late nights from work, all comfortable in the Company Cab is; no job as hard as Sex Trade. May it be legalised someday. You can’t say you care for the woman if you can’t protect her.

Pru's Notebook

Out of curiosity, last Saturday, I called a friend, a community mobliser, who had worked  in Bwaise Kimombasa for years rehabilitating sex workers, connecting them health care services and education programmes for their children. He had shared their stories with me but I wanted to hear and see for myself. I wanted treat my curiosity, I wanted to know what would force anyone to go into this “World Oldest Profession”. With an open notebook, a curious mind and loads of questions I was in Kimombasa in Bwaise.

Sheila was the first person we met. This is the story of Sheila a 29-year-old sex worker.

“My father worked at the ministry of internal affairs. Our home was at Old Kampala Block 20A5BS New park. My mum was a business woman that would go to Dubai for months to do business. I don’t know what business she was doing. While she was away…

View original post 1,184 more words

Take me Home

426413dd-39ce-4f32-976d-547ee9dbc70d

The Kampala skyline comes along, time and again.
Your picture that I hold, that keeps you around.
It’s been two days, it’s been too long.

I’m finally out of my room, where we know.
I’ve made one step out the door, the other a missed step.
I want to go back in, but i wan’t to move on.

The food is tasty, and I see the waitress.
I never saw her before, I only saw you.
This place is the same without you, but I’m not.

Without you isn’t a place I thought I’d go.
Withought you isn’t a thought, I’d harbour.

The sounds around me resonate you.
The whispers and the giggles too.
I hear you in the steps of those climbing up.
In the taps and slides on the gym floor.
I feel you in the music that is playing.

It’s a raft I want to escape from.
But where do I fall, the tide is strong.
I feel you all around, circling in my thoughts.
I close my eyes, I want to escape.

I see our footprints in the sand, i see the shore.
I feel hairs raise down my back, and I want more.
But do you have more, something left to give.

I feel like you’re long gone.
And I feel like something’s wrong.
I feel like you’re all alone.
Like I wasn’t there all along.

I know you feel like I won’t long.
You think I feel something inside so strong
Well, I feel like I’m at peace alone
Till I’m alone

So, take me back
Take me in your arms, back to home
Back to you, back to us, where we know.

 

 

Perks of the Inconsiderate Friend Zone 

I wanna see you and not feel shy. For I bared it all, right there before your eyes.

You saw my naked soul and couldn’t cover it, not even with your woolen shawl.  That one you loathe so much.

To the end of the world I went, just to put a smile on your face and that feel that is satisfaction; to my heart.

I almost walked through the shadows of the valley of death for you. And still I didn’t know you. You didn’t let me.

I never held your hand, not once, never was embraced but for that one side hug. One that faded before it was received.

I wanna take it all in with seemliness. For it seems it’s the better way away. A better way out, if at all I was in.

I’m so tired of trying, all with plain clarity right spread before me. That I chose not to see, not to feel.

I’m done with bending low just to get to know your lows and not even your laughs or your loins.

The heart is what I sought, but seems it’s that, that you can’t share. To like what isn’t to be liked is a waste.

To settle for less, to settle for the physical is the last kicks. Nevertheless it’s what it is when the ebbs set in.

Remember when I wanted to take you somewhere but you didn’t know where. 

Remember when I brought you Daffodils from the pretty steam, but you only knew Roses and wasn’t fazed.

Those nights you said you wanted us to share but your phone was in a coma or on a field trip was it.

I hide from you now. I realised that you were just a sapless flower wrapped in canonical standards 

 But for the whirlpool that is a crush. I should have figured that out eons ago.

I saw you be bullied at this Blankets and Wines and I wanted to fight. But my feels have been broken way too many times.

I knew I’d lose. Not to them. But to myself because of the promise made, to forget you. 

I couldn’t stomach seeing you sad, about to cry. But your stomach never felt the same for my pockets those days. 

Not even for my feels. Heaven knows I cared. Or perhaps heaven forgot, but I tried.

*Imagination | The Friend Zone