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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Loose Talk.

What pulse drives you? Is it ambition, is it fear? Is it desire? What is it? Is it love?
Something has to be fuelling your fire, or else your flame will burn out.
And please don’t tell me your life runs on solar. Just don’t.

For you I know, clearly know; it is love, I can see it on your lips, I can see it in your eyes.
That glow on your skin tells one thing, you are neck deep in that shit that is love.
It must stink, doesn’t it? Oh, you can’t smell that, can you? Love numbs all senses remember.

I’ve been stalking you for eons now, and guess what;
You’re weird, he’s weird too.
You’re an idiot, he is too.
Okay, you’re real and so is he.
Don’t get me wrong. You two are special.

They say, to be in love is to be anchored in the safest anchorage and I can see you’ve really landed bulungi.
I can see the intensity of your feelings, your emotion of being, that passion, that self-surrender. They’ll Mollis you!
The love you’ve got isn’t Romeo and Juliet, isn’t Abelard and Heloise either; it certainly isn’t the imagination of countless poets, it’s Kampala love, it’s real love. Street Love.

Tell me you don’t keep his undershirts on.
I hear you sleep in his large T-shirts.
I’ve seen you kiss on the sidewalks from work.
You kiss more than you hug. To think you used to fist bump.
He now smells like your favourite perfume and you, his.

Late night calls. Frequent calls. A distended call log.
Imagine one chat, his chat is always above the ever vibrant Whatsapp group chats.
One word sentences for others, paragraphs and essays for that one chat.

I can smell love even in the filthiest of sewers.
And what you guys have is love love, it’s affection love, might even be sex love.

They say, only sex love can create the homogeneity, equality and reciprocity between two persons and drown egoism.
I can see the way you relate.
You girl, you must have seen each other already, unravelled things hitherto hidden in laces and all.
You must have eaten each other already, yes.

Remember the bruises, the other time, now I know they were bite marks.
What! So who is Dracula now?
Or have you been in a WWE fight ish with him, 12 rounds; no knockout.
I know, if there’s a drop of love in sex, 12 rounds isn’t a hard ask.
You know with love sex, it is said over and over again; means insatiable participation in the existence of the loved.
12 not out? Wow. You guys are great. Deserve a medal

By the way, Love is blind for those in the realm of love.
Had you noticed that you two were holding hands for more than 10 minutes instead of downing your beers?
Aha. Anyway, I’m happy for you. Nice hair by the way, where did you do it from? I want.

A girl talking to a girl, about a boy who is in love with a girl.

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Gregor Cresnor

Dumbballs.

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Has a man approached you, opened his mouth and you’re like WTF? Well it can’t get any more dramatic than;

I recognise you.
Do you pray from Watoto North West?
Have you been to Cafe Javas Kampala Boulevhahad?
Did you audition for Big Brother Africa?
Could it be have been the last Blankets and Wine?
Did you intern with the Parliament?

I have seen you somewhere.
It can’t be Legends, is it?
Do you pray from All Saints on Sundays?
Are you the NTV lady?
The Ascot races, weren’t you in the adjacent tent?
I knew it, the MTN Marathon it is.

I recognise you.
I sat behind you in this High School class.
We are in the same Whatsapp group.
I play ball with your brothers.
We were on the same plane to Qatar.
The WestCoast Gym, I work out from there too.

I’ve met you somewhere.
Oh yes, it’s Iguana.
Is it you I met via Ekisaakate in Bristol?
Wow, I was at your christening, you’ve grown!
Monot Bar, must have been there.

I think I know you.
I don’t know from where.
I just have that feeling.
Nice to bump into you again.
I’m Amanya. You?

Being a man is treading the path to dumbville. Approaching a girl or starting up a conversation is your ticket.
Sometimes you need a pick up line, not a stanza, just a line. Sometimes you need God’s grace.
Some people are always genuine. Other people are sometimes genuine, other times not.
It’s dumb whichever way you look at it. Only that passion numbs dumb.

The Weird I Love

Daylight to seek each other out
Daylight to brew a bond
It’s been long coming
Breaking little twigs on its way
Like this, it is as was meant
On the road so steep
Far across the city, alone
We had a promise made
Pecks, smiles, hugs and hands off
Both under a visible spell
We had a heart and soul pull
To know what to do
To say what you mean to say
The tongue is a razor blade

To shed a tear for mixed emotions, to feel all.
Wouldn’t want to stop, would you? No

I’m in it with you
I’m in you with it
It makes perfect sense
A moment to push and scream
And then relief, sigh
To a soundtrack of perfect tunes
Roses are red and some are black
Blueberries are not
Berry buttons and tongue
Hunting you, hunting me
Your beauty spots
Are like shooting stars
We had a promise made
To shoot cupids darts and axes
An axe to grind. Legs astride
We did. We were in love

To hold so tight, skin to skin, soul to soul, to feel it all.
Wouldn’t want to stop, would you? Oh.

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As I sink into the open sea
We feel the earth. We feel the time
Is it raining outside?
Is the sky grey?
There’s a numbness in my soul
The mind is a lazy place
On the hem of your soul
Is a red carnation
Eat me. Like a cannibal
Fill the gap between you and I
We ignite a spark
We set the fire
We hear the hums
We hum what we hear.
Breathe in, breathe out
It’s life. Don’t stop.
The words weigh heavy on the heart
Tears flow down the cheeks
Just like a blade,the joy went in deep
And it is tearing up inside you.

To catch a smile on your face.To feel alive, loved.
Would cherish that, forever, Wouldn’t you? Yaaaasss.

Love: From the Phone Side of Life.

Let me tell you a story.
About a phone and a phone.
A brick phone and another brick phone.

Once upon a time, there was a phone, Thusi, big; blue all over, in color and grey on the sides, on the face.

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He fell in love, real love, stupid love with a girl who was new on the scene, Nandi.
Nandi was pretty, light skinned, curvy with a ginormous behind but surprisingly light, with a waist of a wasp.

It was love at first kiss, it was one cold Saturday morning and the skies were threatening to let loose, it was all dark skies and angry winds up in Kololo. Days when the Kampala weather is bipolar, off medication and throwing tantrums. Thusi was in Kololo for the first time, he’d come to fix something small, he needed to swallow a pill, a pill that made him an extrovert, connect with others, make him have the confidence to talk to others. He was here for his service fee.

In came a lady, full of fancy color and a cool jacket. It was the jacket; he looked at the jacket and felt the bite of the coldness hit hard. But as she came closer, he looked at the boobs, typical of men, and at the pretty face down to the high heels and knew it was it. She was the one. She placed herself closer to desk 15, in the extreme corner via the VIP Only section.

He stared, and stared some more, she looked and caught him staring. It was a blank stare, probably that stare that leaves you picturing someone in the wedding gown and with the gown off later after the wedding night in a split second.
He was caught, staring, and staring is supposed to be rude, but she smiled, he melted, with a cold shiver down his spine. The coldness disappeared and he began perspiring on his brain. He couldn’t say a word, or swallow nothing, for two seconds he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know what to do, but he smiled like a puppy, and collapsed, he powered off and couldn’t restart.

The shirt was removed and the battery too, but he couldn’t start. Nandi knelt down and CPR was applied, she put her full lips on his and her soft hands on his chest and gave that kiss, the kiss of life as he pressed the chest, nothing. Once, twice, thrice, nothing. A small crowd had gathered and some ladies behind had started crying, it was drab. Nandi didn’t give up, one more time, and another and another and Thusi was up, alive, breathing fit as a fiddle but confused.  Everyone got relieved, someone had called 999 but 999 in this part of the world only came as an agent of the morgue, nothing more.

Relief in the air, Thusi thanked Nandi endlessly and asked if they could go to the near restaurant for some juice. She allowed, maybe because of pity for the big guy or because they had a lot in common. It was the juice and numbers exchanged and arrangements for more visits. It was love at first kiss. The kiss of life.

It was a kiss on the aisle, vows exchanged and a future together painted.
It became a perfect couple, they were both big and could keep supplies for weeks if not months depending on usage. •Nandi and Thusi were charge once and use forever. Battery never ran out.
•They were easy maintenance, they didn’t need fancy things like MBs. Things that cost a fortune and brought neither satisfaction nor happiness.
•They never over stared, over looked at everything that didn’t concern them, in fact they were see no evil, have no camera.
•They kept secrets, and had morals, didn’t keep immoral memories on them, let alone leak them. Nudes wasn’t something known to them
•Thusi and Nandi didn’t have lugambo, loose talk, they would never take a screenshot of your conversation, never.
•And they satisfied themselves in everything, see they both had big pins and the sex was intense and real.
•They were strong and wouldn’t cry over silly things, a fall was nothing, they didn’t want to know whether it rained or not, they’d move out and work.
•Most importantly they lived for long; they celebrated birthdays, ate cake, drank wine, blew candles and themselves and got tired.

Then they had kids, first the kids were skinny and with every kid they had, the size decreased. In stature, awesomeness and genitalia, everything.  Small pins happened.

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•The kids became fancier with a love for color and fancy head gears, they would slide here, flip there. They were the cool kids.
•They started developing environment capturing tendencies and would take and keep few memories, they got cameras.
•They also started talking too much, for long times and in faster tones, doctors called it an evolutionary trait called mp3.
•The cool kids started hanging out with other cool kids and other cool kids and had a secret way of doing it without leaving evidence, the parents wouldn’t know. So the parents couldn’t cast their nets to catch the misbehaving kids. The kids nicknamed it the Internet. As cool kids grew up, the parents started having more kids.

More kids, came in extra sizes. Thusi and Nandi couldn’t understand, their new kids were born big and would soon become obese with each kid.

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•They became giants with big tummies and an insatiable appetite, they had to feed them MB formula in bundles and special packs. And they would want more and more, they called it updates, an the budget went up as a result.
•The big kids became better at everything their cool kids could do, they could do quite many tasks at the same time without even pausing one. They were perfect multi-taskers.
•The big kids were like big shiny silos, they could store the earth and the moon and all the stars. They had this trick they had, they kept most things on square sacks. And they came up with slang for them too. Data for the things kept and memory cards for the sacks, clever bastards.
•These new kids were super bright though and could compute impossible calculations, and solve many challenges, some could even develop their own body parts.
•See the big kids had many ways to connect, they’d chill at places like Wifi and Bluetooth and share everything. They shared everything apart from the lessons about humanity and morality.
•They became pimps and connected beings to imaginary wives and helped spread the left hand syndrome, many nasty things were made and they had no shame in leaking and sharing with everything, just to make trends. Nudes, tapes, conversations, everything.
• The big kids had bad manners, they’d find a stranger drowning in quicksand and take a memory to share with their friends for currency called likes and retweets, instead of saving a life first.
•They lived for notifications, they craved notifications, and they set standards for likes, sold their souls for retweets and lived a lie. Their life was an aggregate of many confusing but captivating words, they called it a blog.

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No one understood the new big kids, not even their bigger kids, the tablets. But certainly everyone loved and lived for the big kids, for they were useful, handy. Sadly the big kids one sunday lost their parents Thusi and Nandi, they died together in their care home, and left quite the legacy.

That marks the end of my story.

Tutee

The girl I loved but never fell in love with.
The girl who loved me but never owned me.

Opportunity knocks once just like lightning strikes a spot only once, they say.
Stifle your feelings and the chemistry, the ‘connection’ will be asphyxiated. Not good.
You can only take a small bite of your cake, if you wanna keep it.
Apprehensiveness will deny you what’s truly yours.
Or will only let you taste just enough to fill you with enough what ifs.
Fear of what next. Fear of companionship, fear of emotional submissiveness. Not good.

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She came into his life at time when he’d just moved from a single sex school to a mixed one.
When he didn’t know how to react to daily proximity to a girl he’d have something for. Or any girl at that.
She touched him when the earmarks of a past relationship hadn’t faded away.
When he was still in denial of feelings past, in incredulity of the circs present.
A past relationship of long distance letters, stolen kisses on Interact days and a once in a lifetime dub on Sosh.
To having skirts all over, soft tender rubs from arms passing by, the high pitched voices and giggles.
Either way she touched him and what sprung up was a bond for a lifetime.

The girl I shared my vests with but never shared a towel.
The girl who showed me, compared her little boobs with my chest.

Affection is so cryptic, it just sprouts like a shoot burgeoning from a seedless raisin.
It fills your soul and you  cease to care about how much you care and feel for the other.
Nothing in this world makes us so necessary to others as the affection we have for them, nothing.
Whether it is reciprocated or not, doubled or halved, still you care, incessantly. And you don’t see it. You don’t realize it till someone points you there, and you feel it.
It feels good too, feeling something you can’t quite comprehend.
As to love is passion, contagion is to affection. You catch it, along the way, like it or not.
If it’s real, it sticks. Only in affection is durable care bottled.

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He always made sure she had a blazer on, as she was asthmatic. She made sure he attended lessons as he was not that motivated.
She always fought his fights for him, and he defended her all through thick and very thick.
Every weekend they’d sit under the shade near the basket ball court and chat away for hours, like forever.
Only that forever is never enough because was always evening prep.
They were not in love, they were just there, they weren’t even friends. They were something else. They were like clones.
And everyone knew it. Talked about it but couldn’t explain it, as they both seemed to be seeing others.
When she lost her dad, it’s in his chest that she found solace. He was there for her all through, holding her hand.
And hold hands they did, every day at evening prayers, in church seated on the wretched pews every sunday.
Something was in their hands, a connection of sorts. For the hands would pen endless chits.
In church, at the aisle holding hands they would be, ought to be, as everyone predicted, but for affection devoid of action.

The girl I will never marry, but whose hand I’ll happily give away.
The girl who will never make our blood thicker than water.

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