Take me Home

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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…

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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.

Birthdate Blues.

 

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


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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.

 

The dining table…

Not like I have a special fondness for furniture. Not like I’m a wood guy, in fact the closest I’ve been to wood is that early-in-the-morning briefs classic. I’ve planted a tree before though and I own a mini forest back home. I also feel trees have feelings and their lives matter too. I once belonged to the Green Party. I feel for trees.
Do I feel for wood? Much as I feel it every morning, after every flirt or dub, I don’t really know.
Do I feel for furniture? Can’t tell. There are some things I’ll never know.

But I know, I know there’s something poignant about dining tables. Looking around, I think it’s the most maudlin item in the house.
By the house, I mean the house, not the one roomed ‘homes’ we had a campus which doubled as both bedroom and living room. Sometimes as the garage and kitchen.
In a house, a real house; a house house, not the couch, not the kitchen sink, not even the bed has a more lasting touch-bear-on than the dining table.

Not like I’m a foodie or something. Not like I treasure the food moments and the table talk or anything. Or perhaps do I? I wouldn’t know.
I’ll really never know why it is like that, but I can certainly try and track back to growing up…

There was this dining table of ours once upon a time. Fine strong wood, with a dark classic shade, very sleek. It wasn’t made of oak but was equally beautiful. If it were a woman, it’d be She of perfectly shaped curves, strong big legs, a smooth skin and no make-up on. Raw and beautiful as could be.

I fell in love with this one table, not because it knew the covers of all my class books, it’d kissed them all.
Not because it gave me company as I did my rather rugged homework, homework which I’d do immediately after school just before I escaped to play in the evening sunset. I fell in love, for some reason I’ll someday understand.

We had a weird bond; this table and I. It was I who was always tasked to clean it. And clean it I’d do, With utmost care for detail. Its legs, with a wet towel. Under its feet, the base. I’d make sure the ridges were dusted and the foodstuffs that had fallen in the crevices and turned black; I’d remove with a tooth pick, pin or the fork with the middle finger (middle metal) that I’d specially curved for that purpose.

Perhaps I minded more about cleaning it because of the numerous times I caught myself thinking deep, with eyes closed and or in a deep slumber head first, sometimes cheek second. I never drooled or it’d never forgive me. No
one ever forgets being drooled on. And from experience I say this; my chest has seen one or two wettings.
That table was the factory of my dreams and my aspirations.I tend to believe that if it had a slot for inserting a memory card, I’d download one or more of my long forgotten
Technicolor dreams.

That was eons ago, when I was young; so young like just a little bit before teenage young. Twelve and below. In the late 1990s. that was when I stayed in the cold and beautiful hills of some town in western Uganda. One of the few places in Uganda with 4 seasons, Winter, Summer to Spring.

I’d later leave it behind as I moved to our other home in the city. I missed it as the city one wasn’t as immersing.
The new one was all fancy and thin, it looked all starved and yearning for more of substance. Thin wood wasn’t captivating. It appeared to be frail, inept and too exotic. All beauty no substance. It didn’t get to me, my spirit wandered; my love, my touch was lost. I lost my feels, I lost it all.

The connection with furniture, I lost it, I forgot all about my long lost first love. And they say the firsts, cut the deepest. It was more because I’d left it at a young age. I was in p3 then. My love of 6 years forgotten because of proximity and more because of a young mind.

My love-hate relationship persisted, I remember trying in vain, to forge a special relationship with the desk on which I sat all my primary school life. I’d lost that part, that affection. Much as from my desk I’d become first in class till p7, we didn’t share much. In fact I shared a stringer bond with my seatmate Mable than my desk.

Much as that desk kept my books and my sweater. Much as Mable who didn’t take porridge and only fed on milk,
stocked like 3 cups of evening porridge in its belly for me; as I was out playing football,nothing, no special
relationship was made.
Even as we used to bang our desks like drums whenever teachers had a meeting in the staff-room or an outing and weren’t in proximity, the beat never bonded us.
We would organize an orchestra of desks. See desks made different sounds when banged. Depending on the wood used, the size, the thickness. And we enjoyed that all our primary days. We even had a conductor for our orchestra. It got
us punished severely too.

It’s funny how the desk always moved from one class to the next upon promotion to the next class. Funnier how Mable and I would tag along. From p4 to p7. It’s funnier how we got the same results in the Primary Leaving Examinations.
I tend to think it wasn’t in the water, perhaps in the desk.

It’d be an unimaginable 9 years till I reunited with the dining table I’d fallen in love with growing up. It gave me joy to find out she hadn’t moved on. Not an inch. She was as I’d left her, in the same spot too. She looked as natural and strong as shed always been and as thick as well thick can be.

There was something about it. My furniture fetish came up again. And we stopped from where we’d stopped like nothing had happened. So much for a marriage partner.

She needed a bath, she needed thorough cleaning, for she wasn’t being cared for as I once did. And in two days we’d reached the panacea we both craved.

I was in A ‘level then with quite the heavy load that was books, mathematics books, physics books, chemistry books, books of all flavors. We shared them together, Table and I. Sometimes in the company of Larry London and his VOA Music Mix.

Same as we shared the late night Pop and Alternative music on American radio stations. And my deep slumbers time and again when I forgot to toss myself into my loft, or was convinced I was, but wasn’t the case.

We had our times. My childhood dining table and I. Oh my Wood, it was a tale to tell.

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.