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Love

old sport

Let’s talk magic; let’s talk love, let’s talk gibberish and a bit of sport.d

So many words unwritten, stories never told, loves lost and never found.

Situations. Cries smothered by pillows. Harrowing tales never believed.

No one feels your pain for you. Pain equated. Pangs of regret. What ifs.

Love; a myth, the known unknown, the smallest voice that makes it major.

Stories of eyes, heavy eyes. Days of dust. Forgiveness less forgetfulness. Unrelenting.

Head alongside heart. Spirit painted gold, hands raised high. Legs, the same. Tip goads.

Rains on the window pane. Count me in. Tingles in this silly place. The right places.

Undercover staying dry and warm. Adored nose kisses. Wherever, whenever.

Smiles. Stolen stares at your spumy face. Feelings. This is us. Blendy. This is us.

Once again it’s my soul. When all is lost and I lose control. I always know, it’s you. It is.

What we found, an epithet for Love. For you make me smile, time after time.

Been awake from this slumber now. It’s the soul again. It’s the story never written.

Those bites, bite your best friend like chocolate. Go on, go go. Car smells like cigarettes and cum. Go.

Hair still smell like coconut cum and chocolate and cum and more chocolate.

Steamy windows. Friends calling. Lips bitten. Marks left. Mental photographs.

Memories

Categories
Love

esor

I love the rose

I love the thorn.

Only when it’s not piercing.

I love the red.

I love it’s red.

Only when I’m not bleeding.

A rose by any other name?

But who smells a name! The other name!

Rose is but a name caressed and addressed as a noun.

It is in love where; smells, touch, a thought, a prick, a noun! Leaves a moment, memory.

Love always has, always leaves you in the conundrum.

It is felt. The feel as nostalgia, as a moment as a name.

“Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.”

In love as in war; what is, just is.

As we now say, if you die, you die.

If you love, you fall. It’s so red, crimson red.

It’s bloody, like all pricks. It pricks.

Pricks, that guard the essence of blossom. As a bud, till it withers. Petal after petal. Till dry do it part.

Pricks that remind you of the sacrifice that is, to love. A pact. A cryptic pact.

For he that dares not grasp the thorn. Should never crave the rose.

Photo Credits; Amanya
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#UgBlog #ugblogweek Affection Care Dreams Imagination Life Love Uganda ugbloc

Life moves on

This post has been domiciling in the Drafts folder for 6 months now. A visit from a friend had me spelunking this deep dark inundated cave. Well, it is one post light now.

Friend; “Later this year we gotta visit Ibanda and you know, show some love to our fallen Ninja’s friend.

Me; “Sure we should. It’s for saving a weekend.

Friend; “True mahn, but biggest worry is how many guys will go, won’t people be busy.

Me; “Shyaaaa, even if they were five. See, life is just like that. How many people do you think knew her surname or eve where she resided? If people won’t even see you when alive, think of when you’ve passed.” But so is life, eyyy and again, what’s life?”


My only quarrel with life; is just what it is, life.

Life moves on. Life is a bitch. Life just takes no prisoners. It’s never rainbows and butterflies. Life is that one thing you can go on about until you die. You hustle day in, day out just to end up lifeless.

Life will have you home sleeping yet again; after yet another day of constant pressure, bad days at work, worse moments on the road. You’ll seek solace at home, but home won’t be home with the heart is away.

Lazy again, procrastinating, perhaps having a terrible headache, body numbing cramps, but somewhere the party goes on. As if to celebrate your misery.

You wonder what could have been, you imagine had you been there, would it have counted? Did they miss you? How come the World never stopped when your world stopped. How come, no one of those close to you felt your pain with you?

No; the world rotates regardless, it keeps on rotating. Its axis just isn’t your head.

You could be in a ditch dying, after being knocked by speeding vehicle at one past midnight. It’ll be cold, it’ll be dark. You’ll feel hopeless, you can’t lift a finger. You’ll be there gasping for breath, using that last joule of energy to scream out for help. But no one will hear you. No one will know your trials, the friends you left at the bar, the same friends you bought drinks, the girl you kissed. Someone will stop just above you, she’ll unzip her pants and pee on you. It’ll feel a bit warmer, it’ll be like the dog days are over, but it’ll just add salt to injury.

You’ll scream with every last breath, but it won’t be enough. She’ll zip up and leave, you’ll be gutted. Life moves on. For you it won’t, tomorrow they’ll pick the lifeless you and send you off, you’ll be covered in dust. That love you will cry, the tears will dry. Life will continue as usual.

See; even when you sleep off, the iPod will keep playing. Sometimes the same song on repeat. Other times it’ll play on shuffle till morning. It keeps playing whether you’re listening or not. You wake up and start from last stop.

You have people in your life, they bring you flowers, sometimes chocolate. Share music with you, look out for you. Get an Uber for you on those cold bar nights at Stoke. They care, they genuinely care, love and adore you. The other day, they drove 124 kms just to pass you a water bottle when cramps were squelching you. It’s life.

They weren’t with you when the Post Graduate professor forced himself on you. They’ll never know, because you’ll never tell. You’ll never tell because you are scared, scarred and scabbed.

What you had will die. And you’ll be crushed too. And no one will know your pain. No one will feel that pain for you. Only You.

Sometimes you’ll feel like Social Media is toxic, like there’s too much negativity, like you want a fresh start. So you go on, you mute, block un follow, you change usernames, you do the most. Oh, you’re playing yourself, nothing changes. You’ll be back, you’ll try to start from last settings and nothing will have changed. Life Kyekyi.

“I need new friends” Oh. I also need a Friends Recycling Machine. Guess we got to wake up, we get caught up in the dream and it becomes reality. No one comes perfect, even if the packaging may lie sometimes. Pretty faces; awesome curves, big heads, you’re attracted and soon you, very soon. What You See Isn’t What You Get.

You can’t run away from your shadow, new friends always end up as the old ones sooner than you lose the New Friends receipts. It’s all about you, be the the new friend you need.


Life is every bit unfair. Some will say it’s unfairly fair; others, fairly unfair. But it’s unfair either way.

Half empty or half full, the other side will always feel deficient. You know how they say the grass, this, that. It’s never greener the other side, it’s just as green. Don’t be played.


On hills top is that One Tree. At the other end of the waves is sharp rocks and that Lighthouse. All there when you are, so much there when you aren’t.4ede2ef1-ef2a-465f-bfcc-ed143356e7bb

Categories
Love

Loveeeee. Filimu ya masasi.

Categories
Love

Platon

It’s not over.

Top of the waves.

Snow in Spring. Poseidon lied.

Rains and rivers. Troubled Souls.

Catch that fire. Sewed cracks.

Underneath the life force.

Natural disasters. Swēte untruths.

Angels falling. Faded Love.

Pick a star. Shushhh. Fall off the roof.

Princesses of Night Rose. Nightingales.

Lies BlueSky Camaraderie.

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#UgBlog Imagination Life Love

Life…

What is Life?
An hour-glass on the steady run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A dew drop on the fall.

A minute’s pause, a moment’s thought.
A Lover’s troth, a kiss that never lasts.
An eye blink, the last breath.

A bubble on the stream,
Petrichor in the air,
Surreptitious gazes, desire.

The puffing gale of morn,
A cobweb, hiding disappointment’s thorn,
A mother’s breast.
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.

What is Life?

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#UgBlog #ugblogweek Affection Love Uganda ugbloc

this, lust for life…

this,

not from a Irving Stone novel. Not even slightly close.
this,
not from a Vincent van Gogh tarradiddle.
this, just is.

They say only the good die young. And I’m young, then I’m good. Then I’m worried.
So, I on that trek I embark to find sense in this, that we call life.

To find meaning, to seek the light, of what is, what should be and what might be.
To find oneself in the haystack that is life.

One:
To love, to give; to care, about the others more than you care about self!!!
It is sweet in the present, and painful in the past.
Like, nearly all that get, don’t deserve, don’t appreciate or don’t take a moment to let you know they do.
It wounds, you heal, but the diseased stay diseased. If it is a disease it is one that rarely heals.
They’ll ask again, you’ll realize a NO was appropriate YES moments later. You can’t take it back, you can’t escape from it.

Two:
You want it, you badly want it. Butt when you get it, you don’t need it.
You leave work early, money in your wallet, on full slayage.
You want to have it. Soon as you leave the gates, you’re clueless. What bar now? A movie perhaps?
But with whom will I be? A few meters from the bar, you stop, pause and ponder on the next step.
6-pm beer needs company. Who do I call?

This one, no. This, not at all. The other, perhaps; oh shit they are abroad. What next. It’s 15 minutes and you’ve been standing on the veranda of a fancy eatery.

Perhaps food. But the menu is like written in indelible ink. You’ve eaten this, and that and the other. This other one tastes best on a rainy day. And the last on on the menu is a meal for two. Arghh, you move on. Grab a bike and move to the Hill to see the sunset. You want it, you want life, but you’re lusting for it.

To the Hill, to breathe in life, you need that. To think through things, it’s about time. It’s a beautiful out there, you love it and take one or two, perhaps many shots. You love the shots, they make you almost complete. Then you think it’d been sweeter if you had at least one or any of those you love to feel, with you.
To share with you.

You start thinking of whom to share with but can’t quite figure out whom. Arghhh, this one just doesn’t love sunsets, whatever they like, you’ll never know. The other is a but, she took your headsets and never returned them.
The whole phone book is full of would have beens but isn’ts.


To be continued… but first Nora is presenting at Kigambo Hub. Got to look for that pot of gold.

Categories
Love

That Magazine

http://issuu.com/voicesofabantu/docs/voices_of_abantu

Soon I'll be making an appearance. It's awesome stuff really. Take a look.

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#UgBlog #ugblogweek Affection Care Dreams Fiction Imagination Infinite Love Life Love Uganda ugbloc

I will

“I have a headache so I won’t write.” I have thoughts. That yearn to be let out. And they’ll be.
I have a lot that I’m sleeping on. The sleep is sweet. I want more.
I’l write something so nice. It’ll have tongues wagging. When I wake up, I will.
Oh here comes the rain. Soon as it dries up i’ll write. I love the rain. I love the sleep. I live for sleep in the rain.
I’ll wake up. I’ll write. My friend, she wants a Billet-doux written. She longs for it. I’ll write. She’ll smile.
I bought her a flower. It dried up. she smiled. She didn’t sneeze this time. It was dry. She loved it, but she didn’t say.
The chocolate. It didn’t melt. It was melted. Words were written. In it. “Write me something, anything.” What was left. It was smudged. On her favorite seat. My face.
“I can’t say i love you. I can say I love ink, this ink, you and paper.”
I’ll write. Anything. It’ll be short, it’ll be from the heart and it’ll be about us.
When i wake up. I’ll write.


From this dream. When I wake up… to be continued.

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#UgBlog #ugblogweek Stories Uganda ugbloc

Re-blogged:

One of the things that are almost taboo, a source of shame and a fountain of wonder will always be menstrual issues, especially in Africa. Women talk about so many things about their bodies or sexuality; from visiting the bush, to bedroom antics, but somehow no one will comfortably speak boldly about menstruation. Yet it’s […]

via Why Don’t Women Just Want Better Options Of Sanitary Towels — KigeziDiva