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.


 

Advertisements

 “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 

Amy 

Your mess is yours as it is mine.

Might you overdose again. It’s alright I’ll clean up. 

Give me your other key. I’ll drive you home and beyond.

Cry when think of the memories lost. My shoulder is yours as much as it’s mine.

You can tell me it’s your last time. I’ll surely do believe.

Talk to me, don’t bottle it up. Let me know your deepest pain.

Your deepest pain, your worst regret. It’s all fine it’s safe all with me.

Even when you walk through the rain. This my Jacket is yours as I dry your hair.

When you shiver again, I’ll be your wrap.

Hold on dear little one. Your mess is yours as it is mine.

Saw you again at the Shopping Mall. You looked as bubbly as you alway do.

Yellow sundress and a cute smile, natural hair and the lazy freckle.

Checking in and checking out, I lost you on the turnstile.

Call me when the Sun is down. You’re the reason I’m out of this bed. 

The reason I’m hanging out. This mess is yours. Your mess is mine.

Puked on a guy once again. Hope he likes the new shirt, we’ve bought for him. 

Like the last one liked my shirt I had to give. 

Let me cover your cocktail before we leave, as you wash your mouth of tartness.

You’re holding my hand again. Leaning on my shoulder. I’ve got you. I’ve got this.

Your panties have to slide down before you pee. Hold on as I unbutton your ripped jeans.

Your mess is yours much as it’s mine. 

Remembering what we used to be. You were mine and I was yours. 

Think of Love don’t think of pain. For there’s a reason I’m hanging on.

You once were the reason I once felt so alive. Should I give up, I’ll have lost half of what remains of what I lost. 

You talked in your sleep last night. Said you were sorry. For the times and for the mess. Yey I don’t mind, I just care. 

Well you’re  still who you’ve always been to me. Intertwined as we might sound. Your destiny is mine too. 

Nikki

Get lost in me.Breathe me in.

Let’s lose time. Let’s lose it all.

Let’s get to that place.

The place where we are. 

Let’s tell each other secrets.

Let’s forget what we told.

Let’s drown our fears in each other.

Look through me. See nothing.

See it all. Know it all. Know nothing.

Let’s find comfort. Shelter us.

Let’s lose ourselves. Close us in. 

Open up your eyes. Say something.

Wonder if you believe. If it’s real.

Let’s wonder,let’s wander within us.

You and I. 

AfroBloggers #FeatureThursdays – El Amanya

I think I’ve made it.

Afrobloggers

Ugandan Blogger Amanya adamantly proclaims that his secret for blog success is writing about the one thing that everybody relates to … love! He regards himself as an endlessly flowing natural who has a unique way of writing. He shares his blogging journey and the discipline that has helped him become a better writer even though he is self taught

What’s the best thing a blogger can give to his readers?

Presentation:

Writing just like any other art form should be presented with utmost attention to detail. From the graphics, to the content; the punctuation, to the flow.

Consistency:

You have no right to go AWOL on your readers! As any dedicated reader will tell you, it’s disheartening when a blogger just disappears. Consistency keeps a reader hooked and connected to the blogger.

Engagement:

The Comments section should be the gist for all blog engagement. A blogger should engage the…

View original post 362 more words

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.

Birthdate Blues.

 

Random Post. Typed on my way from the Field. In a cab with fake music and super cold AC.


picsart_10-27-07.50.46.jpg

November can’t wait for you. The month that resets my life. 1st of November, when reconciliations of my achievements and deliberations about my life is carried out. To one who doesn’t make resolutions, the measure is the feeling. Am I feeling good about where I am? Where I’m going? The pasr isn’t something I dwell on, so where I tread is a ground with no thorns.

1st November, All Saints Day. The date of my birth, now the date of my birth anniversary. I always feel like a saint, because of what my life has been. Not much but miracle after miracle. Blessed, that’s what I am.

1st November the day I get treats from people I like and those that I don’t.

2nd November the day I get to feel bad for treating people half the way they treated me. Life is such that you can’t appease everyone you have in your life on some occasions. There will always be priorities, choices and opportunity costs and the like.

Valentines day taught me more about ‘Occasion Disappointments’. Being Single showed me the trials of being affectionate or close to affectionate to more than one person. You have a Sandra expecting you to call and do the wishes, send flowers and dinner or something and you have a Martha who you kissed last week and feelings are still high in the air.

There’s a Doreen who works with you and always feels you are the one, and you sometimes tell her she is the close one. There’s a Linda who is 500kms away to whom you shouldn’t forget to send wishes.

It so happens that there’s a Manchester United vs Arsenal game, an El classico derby later that night and you are the kind of man.

You regret the next day, Whatsapp messages saying; ‘You forgot about me’, ‘You chucked me’, ‘Kale, you guy, fuck you’.

It is life, It’s what it is.

This November, this first November will be special. I can feel it, I’m in love and happen to share a birth month with the lover. and I know she’ll do bad things to me. She’ll feed nice things to me. She’ll take me places and back.

This November, I’ll be who I always want to be. Because my life will be reset, all fresh and new. This November I’ll be older, wiser and happier. Happier because it’ll be just a month or two to the next year. Happy because November is the last normal month of 2016.

2016 which has been a year of mixed fortunes. I had my first close death in 2016, I had my first taste of unemployment in 2016. But also I got this job in a place I like the most and most importantly met this girl, this complete girl, one who anyone would want to live with happily ever after.

Either way 2016 has to end before anything bad stains it the more. Even the economy is fast falling. I hope, only hope that I have enough for November. Cake will be eaten; Javas food munched and life lived.

Youuuu, November; come around already.