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.

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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.

Three Years.

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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…

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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

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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.


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Za Littro Bird

A bird flew to my window
She did not know I saw;
She pecked the window
And soiled the window sill

Then she saw me
And felt shy
I whistled her to me
And in my arms she came

A bird flew to me
And my life hasn’t been the same again
She came with blessings
And took away the fears

She glances with rapid eyes
That pierce deep inside
They look like frightening beads
But they keep me in line

A bird flew in my life
Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered her a crumb,
And she unrolled her feathers
And I rowed her softer home

Our oars divide the ocean,
Together for a seam,it seems
From dusk to the banks of noon,
Leap, plashless, as we swim.

More like a Comeback Post

It’s been a month 12 days since pen last kissed paper, since I wrote a meaningful post. See writing is like sex, when it’s good both the smasher and the smashee feel it. Both the writer and the reader will feel it, deep inside. Like the clay outside on a rainy day, the petrichor maybe the same but the taste, the feel on the tongue is quite antithetic.

See you’ll write, taste it and it tastes unearthly and you spit; drop the pen and go dance your frustrations away, or you save. And there you have yet another draft that will most probably never see light. Soon as mood changes, the draft all of a sudden looks like stale yogurt. You wonder, “What was I thinking? Damn.”

Forty three days. Sounds like a good number to call any lull a Writers Block. Forty three days. Only that I was writing but not publishing. Call that a Publishers Block. It’s not easy, it doesn’t feel good. It might leave you sad or to some people depressed. Well that’s hyperbolising  but it leaves you wondering Can I Really Write?

To the Sixty Nine bloggers who followed me in those Forty Three days, I don’t know how to thank you. Oh wait, I know how to. I’ll write some more and write sweet. To you the Two Hundred and Thirty Seven who viewed my musings, may you live to see whatever you’ve always wished to see. Even if it’s Bathsheba taking a bath. To the One Hundred One that actually visited this blog, may you be visited by your wishes riding on fancy horses. Thank you so much.

You know Ugandan bloggers haven’t been writing because the mood has been low ever since the rigged elections. You might not see it, but such affect the mood of the country. If you’re Ugandan, you very well know of the increased accidents, the increased suicide attempts, Supermarkets closing, Businessmen needing bail outs, and Writers not writing. It’s simple sociology. I believe Zimbabweans  can relate, that’s if they haven’t assimilated to the circumstances. Well Zambians can relate atleast, ever since they were Lungufied. And Malawians who were Mutharikafied before them.

Times haven’t been good. But to tell you one thing, the sun still rises, even with the pain.
The sun still rises, even through the rain. That’s the way it is.

[#UGBlogWeek Day 2]: Life is the biggest School.

Imagine if you’d never enrolled into School? Where would you be now? What would you be?
Do you ever look back, and deliberate; hear you think, ‘School made me no better!
No better than you come. Than you are.

Yes, they woke us up at 5am in the morning to prepare for School, yes we peed in our pants and on the beds at Siesta time. We were young.
Alright, homework exhausted us so much. Only the dog would be happy with our homework. For reasons it never told me.
I know we saw neither sunrise, for it’d find us at school; nor sunset, for we’d be fast asleep after a smacking from the Mum or the maid to sleep after school.
I know we never ate breakfast properly for we had to rush to beat traffic jam. I know we never beat the traffic jam either way even. It wasn’t fair.

But I also know School helped us learn quickly, grasp every life hack, make friends, enhance our vocabulary. It helped us learn how to relate, socialise and most importantly how to play.
Up and down, on the See-Saw we played, round and round the Hoopla kissed our hips, we swung back and forth on that swing like Tarzan.
And then the bouncing castles, Lego, ballet and mostly the Tyre. Many a boy enjoyed that Moto GP like one-wheeler with sticks as handles and cow dung as grease, as fuel, as oil. You wouldn’t want to hit a pothole lest you swallow shit.

Imagine you hadn’t gone to School, not like home tutored but never stepped into school, never to be taught a thing. Who would you be? What would you be? I can’t imagine that.

I know School came with Kiboko (canes) as we grew up, with teachers drowning their sorrows on our sorry buttocks. It wasn’t fair, we didn’t deserve that smacking. Did we? I mean they could have talked to us nicely and we’d have hid their call.
That’s the biggest lie we told ourselves and continue to. Spare the rod and spoil the child.
And you know some of us came in all types, Naughty, Mild Naughty, Super Naughty and Possessed Naughty.
For us the latter, they had to exorcise those demons at whatever cost. They occasionally told me not to take it personal, they were not giving me a beating at that; but the devil inside.
And school had the most complicated, rather dedicated human beings; for that, spanking little children.

Amid the canes, the numerous books to read, the growing up, sibling fights and the hate towards the opposite sex.
School wasn’t bad. It was fun, well except when made to sit between two girls as a boy or the other way round; it was fun regardless.
We are a product of nature and nurture and the years before the moment we join Secondary School, determine the School you go to.
Generalisations are never wrong, people with the same traits tend to cocoon together. See even birds of the same feather flock together.

Now kids with the same number of canes consumed in elementary school, find themselves in the same school. You passed or you didn’t. You were caned or you weren’t. There is always a correlation there somewhere. So be happy you were caned straight into Gayaza, Ntare, Smack and all the traditional schools and that childhood friend found herself caressed into Hillside, Taibah, the Kitendes and International Schools out there. Traditional schools always enrolled those with the most cane medals. Again, generalizations.

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School becomes an open book. The book becomes life. And you start learning. And learn you do.
Life begins taking shape and your body too, the school fuses its values, culture into you. And you fuse the rest into you. Curiosity, adventure fueled by a transforming body and developing emotions lead you to a path. Hormones open up multiple paths.
You write your first love letter, you get your first kiss perhaps. Numerous heartbreaks and multiple hard-ons.
You begin making discoveries, you’re like the Pilgrim Fathers at this point. Your dick can spit, your clit can swell, and you get your first goose bumps, the goose bumps that come with hardened nipples and strange sensations, you’ve growing.

You begin metamorphosing and your school is the hammer that shapes your sword.
Depending on what school, you become something, head of this club; president of the other. Interact Club, Rotaract Club, Scouts and Guides and all.
You become something, some pick and choose who to be, what to identify as at this stage. You feel like the Alchemist, you get your nature mix with your nurture shake hard and find out the PH value.
You start liking girls, much as you are a girl too. And more girls in your school love girls too. Your school gets an Identity, as the Girl on Girl School.
Your school isn’t making you any better, and you aren’t making your school any better. Or any worse at that. You are just a product of circumstances.

You are who you are, more like who you want to be and what you have become. But it’s who you are, who you’ve discovered yourself to be. And your school has aided you in a way or the other. The exposure you’ve got isn’t the same as that others have got.
The first principles of Adult life are instilled and cemented in High School, College. You put meaning to who you are. You start learning what you are.
Are you a boy smooth with girls? A girl who loves the company of boys? Are you a loner? Introvert, extrovert? This, that?

Vacation comes in time to deny you some things and to increase your thirst for the very things and more.
Vacation balances the Demand and Supply curve. Vacation points you to one place, adulthood.

University. Nothing much goes on here in terms of learning, it’s the dormant stage in terms of Life as the biggest school that’s ever been.
You’re either too broke to chase what you want, or too busy to chase what you want.
You might party here, have fun there, and get born gain, but little changes about you. You learn nothing. It’s the John Snow stage of life.
You are already in the baby stages of Adulthood and Adults never learn. They live more and learn less.
School is as good as done soon as you graduate. On that day you look back cry for some as you give that speech, cut cake and possibly say; School made me no better, and this, my first degree is the end of School.

Life starts after you wear that gown. Work, Bills, Expectations, Aging and Deaths. Life.

UgBloc