Writing is putting down the thing you are most afraid to share.

Let Us Count Seventeen Stars Till They Die : Part Two — July 20, 2018

Let Us Count Seventeen Stars Till They Die : Part Two


… : “Once upon a specific time, the 11th hour of 19th June, 1978. You died.”

I know you’re eager to know, who died? And when I tell you you will then ask, how did he or she die? And in that chronological order.

But McOwen told me not. I was tempted to correct Owen. I had not taken any breaths in 1978, so how did I die? But I let him go on.

So he continued: “This was how you died.”

“Even when you stopped, you fought to proceed and carry on. I was in the crowd that day. It was minutes to the 11th hour and I couldn’t find your demons. I could tell you couldn’t find them too. Your eyes scanned in scatter through the crowd. Your fingers trembled even from the distance. But I couldn’t sense your fear.

But still, where were your demons?”

I know I was not alive in that time, just as I know the taste of water as it rests on my tongue. But even waters take different tastes. I was yearning to know how I did die. But what point is there in playing hard to get? So I gave in, satisfying my curiosity, I let Owen continue.

“Still in the crowd, I was in search of your demons. Eager to see which of your famous smiles you would let out.

Fearful or non receptive?

Wide grinned or wide eyed?

If your demons didn’t rip the cloak of our reality I would never see your smile again.

And so your neck turned and your eyes continued in a ‘searchful’ sojourn. I could tell you ached for blinking eyes rather than shut eyes.

At the corner of my mind, I could hear them. Your demons. Seconds to the 11th hour.

I saw you see them in the crowd, chanting words that flew into and with the crowd.

“Behind the crowd, I saw a paramedic. It was as though during my yearning and your longing, the world ceased to exist. It was as though the chants of your demons caused reality to slap reality.

And so, I could see a paramedic, sprinting with a speed that made my insides ache. The defibrillator in his hand, in its own race, competing with the chants in the wind.

And so, mimicking the gesture of an open mind and an open palm, you opened your heart to the chants.

gods of the people of Nazca, oro te, ut ignoscas in manu quorum unius amplexus atque oscula nostra tactus Midae…

Your fingers trembled.

I knew that if the defibrillator caressed your heart before the chants did, you would have practised smiles for nothing, would have practised even fake smiles for no one.To your right, I heard and saw your chants.

…oro deum ut

And then I knew, they wanted you as much as I did.

This longing, a mutual feeling, a mutual spark.

I felt that spark, electrocute our fingers. The touch of the chants swam through your blood streams as it swam through mine.

Incomprehensible was that moment. I had never heard of a Midas Touch as such. Experiencing it, a blessing.

It spread joyfully through and within my person. And as it finally came to rest on my feet that was when I saw the electrodes pass from the defibrillator to you.

And so you woke up.

But I knew you had died.

I knew I had died.

We were now both a fusion of ourselves.

Your demons were the best angels to have ever come visiting.”

…end of part two.

Let Us Count Seventeen Stars Till They Die : Part One — July 15, 2018

Let Us Count Seventeen Stars Till They Die : Part One


Verily, it was said unto McOwen. With words separated from sounds, he was definite about the provenance of the chimes; accompanied by the sequence of archaic, outdated, cosmetic and still; prophetic words.

No one said ‘ye’ in these times. You would have to be fully cloaked in a different era to not have a voice in your head question you at the mention of the word, and then laugh at your person. Regardless, Owen could not hear his own voice in his own head. The sounds and words were noted in the vocal box of another.

In the box, probably, were heavy weight champions, pub bouncers, protocols, football referees and word class chefs. Living as custodians of the oratory strength of the owner of the box. His voice was neither husky nor feeble; neither aggressive nor fearful. It was one which magnified and magnetised peace, calm, receptiveness, attention and a likelihood to serenade.

Have you heard of Midas? And how about a Midas Touch? I will tell you a tale of a Midas Touch, as was told to me by McOwen…

… part two comes up soon. Thanks for reading.

Black Linen 3. — July 17, 2017

Black Linen 3.

Black Linen 1 & Black Linen 2

“How? What’s the possibility?”

The technician questioned the video frame in front of him.

He was taught in school that videos represent moving visual images. And of course, these images have to be real and physical.

So how was it that the things that happened in reality did not correspond with the frame? He questioned further.

He turned around to face the person beside him.

Her face was in awe; she was mute.


The care workers had found Mrs. Sanders knee bent at the corner of her ward.

Her palms were bruised and bleeding.

It was crimson red everywhere; blood was gushing from her ears. And this was made more obvious because what was once white was now covered in red.


“What happened?”

“She’s not saying anything that makes sense.”

“But at least she’s speaking words.”

“Why would you ask me that?’

“Is she?”

“I can’t make sense of it. Maybe it’s another language.”

“Take me to her.”


Mrs. Sanders’ atmosphere wasn’t filled with anything – or anyone – anymore.

They had cleaned her up and gave her medicine to keep her nerves calm.

A doctor and a care worker stepped into her ward.

She was seated at the edge of the bed.


“Good day Mrs. Sanders”

The doctor introduced himself.

“This is a new care worker personally assigned to you.”

He introduced her.

He drew out a pen torch from his left breast pocket. Then pulled her chin up and asked her to open up her eyes.

Moving from eye to eye, he shone the torch in her eye. It was routine.

“I’m going to ask you some questions. Answer with ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”


She looked at him and then at the other lady in their midst. Noticing the lady’s stockings had a tear in the knee, she chuckled.

Her eyes now laid on the doctor’s.


The doctor began with his questionnaire.

“Have you been taking your medication in the last 72 hours?”

She took her eyes away from his to the floor. Nodding swiftly. 1 2 3. 1 2 3. 1 2 3. Her nods came in segments.

“Mrs. Sanders please answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

1 2 3. 1 2 3.

The doctor let out a sigh and glanced briefly at the other lady.

“Have you been taking your medication in the last 72 hours?”

1 2 3. 1 2 3. She kept nodding.

Noticing her hands between her knees, he made a gesture towards the care worker; she removed Mrs. Sanders hands from knees and placed them on her lap.

She was fidgeting.

A notepad was drawn out from his left breast pocket of his white coat.  He drew out a stool from underneath the table to his left, positioned it in front of her and placed on it; the notepad with the pen torch.

He asked her to pick it up.

She did, fidgeting still.

“Mrs. Sanders please write your answer down. Have you been taking your medication in the last 72 hours?”

Her fingers cramped as she tried to scribble down, her wrist twisted as she tried to aid her grip with her left hand.

“Mmhm.” She uttered sounds of distress.

She was finding it hard to write.


Frustration. The doctors as well the care workers had become well acquainted with distress. But no one was brave enough to utter any phrase suggestive of such; rather throw mints into their mouths than let out a metaphorical version of same.

The medical examiner had now become a forensic examiner. He placed the piece of paper into the light, attempting to claim lucidity.

The world had denied him of lucidity.


“Okay, I’m beginning to feel my IQ reduce. There’s so much stress from the Sanders family.” He became the first to plead insanity.

“What’s wrong?”

The examiner looked the doctor in the eye for a brief moment, “Well asides from the fact that she was able to write backwards with such perfection, the letters keep scrambling every time I take a look. And I’m not dyslexic.”

The doctor let out a mean chuckle with a hook to compliment it.

They both turned in an angle of 90 degrees, facing the computer screen, bidding to decipher who Mrs. Sanders was speaking to in her ward.


Every day your hunger for attention eats off the hair on your head.

I believe that her understanding of what you say to her is ‘you are not doing enough.’”


 The voices filled Mrs. Sanders atmosphere again, with renewed voice boxes and vocal cords their oratory skills were impressive.

There was a time when bells were only decorative, learning about the possibility of an alarming ring a thrill.”

“Futures are the least quality versions of what could have been and that which was anticipated.”

“What did you mean? What did you mean by I killed him? He’s my son!” she questioned.

Woman you’re ringing a bell for no cause, this future I definitely anticipated could not have been in a much worse version as this? Does she think someone else killed her male child?”

“It cannot be; you say these accusations to get my mind affixed to the circular motions of a wash machine. What was it I said before? There is now no condemnation in Him.” Her reply was quick.

You see; of all the lies you tell the greatest is the one you have come to believe to be true; you are a sheep amongst his flock. You are lost! And your shepherd is not coming to find you. Call to death, let him kiss you.

Mrs. Sanders was in tears and her weeping had a voice of its own. Wearier than she was, her eyes let out tears of blood.

“Maybe I should call on death.” She said in her heart and to herself.

Woman! we can hear you!” the voices spat out, matter-of-factly.

“You should not have,” she rose from the bed and ran to the foot of the bunk, pulling it toward the door “this ends now, I’m going to meet my maker, I might even have an outrageous burst of madness because I will dare to question God.”

Ah,” they laughed at her in ridicule “woman dare not to call on us in blaming and finger pointing! Dare not be an Eve.”

She began to speak under her breath, “Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus!”

“Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus! Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus!” she was now sobbing in mourn of Kenneth.

 “Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus!” She reached for the base of her mattress and lifted the edge up, retrieving the pen she had stolen from the examiner.  “Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus! Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus!”

Her eyes were affixed to the ceiling above her as she stood in the centre of the ward, “Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus! Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spriritus!”

She stretched her left hand in a fidgeting manner, with her right she sharply dashed the tip of the pen to her mid forearm and tore open letting the blood that gave her life flow out. There was a spin, her disabled arm spun in a rotation, leaving a circle of blood around her. At this moment she began to hear noises at the door.

After an attempt was made to open the door, the person behind the closed door had come to a rather slow realisation that force was required to easily open the door, buying Mrs. Sanders more time.

In screaming utterance, she said, “Spirits of air, sand and sea! Converge to set the angel free. In the wind, send this rhyme. Bring death before me before my time!”

At the same time, the door was forced open; the ground tore open letting out an unmistakably disturbing dark wind which rose up to the ceiling in a swirl. The sound waves that accompanied the blemished wind took an odd form, hitting hard blows into the atmosphere. It was an injurious brawl, and the ear drums of those close by became victimised.

Even with bloody eyes, one could make out the eyes of a woman longing to be taken away, and with a kiss. Reverse sleeping Beau.

It is time.” she said under her breath.

“I envy you, even in another life…





A Few Things That Make Me FEMALE — March 7, 2017

A Few Things That Make Me FEMALE

Starting a piece is sometimes always the easiest thing in the history of easiest things, but on the flip side it could be the hardest. Welcome to a writer’s world. Should I have used ‘author’ or ‘playwright’ in stead of ‘writer?’

dugen dugen.. the sound of a hearbeat, my heart beat.

In a world where we’re all exposed to gender identity crisis, and girl power is almost equivalent to feminism, and ‘wearing make up is for girls only’ these are the things that make a girl:

Thing One; The sound my straw makes when I drink Capri Sun.

I tried spelling out the sound, seems something like thsssph ttttssssss.


Oh what a summer time drink that is never able to quench your thirst, the lifehack to this however is pouring the content in a cup. Science has proven that 90% of the people who read this will attempt to try it the next time they drink Capri Sun. Science has also proven that 87% of people believe statements that science has ‘proven.’

Thing Two; The hard time I get in trying to groom my natural hair.


Ladiesssssssssssss, I say unto ye “take it one section at a time.” Hair grooming is tough both for natural hair and extensions; on different levels. Sometimes, you want it to be buzzcut season, other times you want to flip your hair in dismissal after you’ve closed your flipphone in dismissal, assuming it was years ago.

Thing Three; Buying overpriced items because they come with more glitter, sparkle and in pink.


“All that glitters is not gold”. Yeah but I could pretend it is, and don’t speak to me with that poor grammar, talking ’bout plural using ‘is.’

Brethren, this is how the typical female mind snaps. The grammar is correct by the way.

Thing Four; Being able to choose food over people.

Sometimes it’s just the better option.

Thing Five; My birth certificate.

Just for the purpose of establishment and assurance, one ought to make reference to this paper that tells you who you are. So in a case of confusion, ask your local government chairman to direct you to where you can obtain a copy. buhahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Thing Six; Having to suffer for not being pregnant.

I stayed away from pregancy, why then must the Japanese declare themselves visitors in my life for a specific period of every month? waving their flag; making sure the red dot is so visible on the white backdrop.

who are we? women! what do we want? answers! and how about pregnancy over periods?*the women fled the scene*

Thing Seven; Buying more makeup when I already have enough to do a giveaway.

You can never have enough makeup.

Thing Eight; Never having what to wear.

I understand Caitlyn Jenner saying this was the hardest thing about being female. We all use hyperbole in minor circumstances.

But for real dawg, a girl’s closet always needs an upgrade.

Thing Nine; Being perceived as the second in command.

Even when we scream that we run the world whilst listening to your favourite female artist, this can be debated. There’s theory and then there’s practice. This is however not always a bad thing, maybe in a parallel universe we are all equal and then there’s another existing world problem that is greater and harder to combat. But in the spirit of girl power; I scream to you ‘EQUAL RIGHTS!’ …not really.




Thing Ten; feel free to enter the comment box with thing ten.





The Many Times I Held My Farts In. — September 14, 2016

The Many Times I Held My Farts In.

I’m so sure. You could almost call me an ambassador of surrealism.

I’m so sure my cape flew in the wind, and the world was saved when I held my farts in. No matter how toxic. No matter how little a whistle of air.


We would never know -you and I- now would we? Because the farts never happened.
Woo, superheroes do come in various forms.

I’ve been a superhero for you. I’ve been a super hero for me too.
You are your own superhero. And I’ll tell you how, regardless of the thoughts you have running in mayhem through your mind right now.

Comfort, what is comfort? Comfort is ease, luxury, coziness, security, relaxation.

Comfort is dipping your tea bag into hot water as many times as you wish.

It’s using your thumb and middle finger to squeeze the excess from your over dipped tea bag.

Comfort is satisfaction.

Running the tap longer than you should, even when you can hear Barney kids someplace in your mind.


Reminding you of why you should never let the water run.

Comfort is snoozing sixteen alarms in a row. Wink.
You knew last night that the snooze was going to be the little death of you. Sleep orgasm. Waking and going back to bed. Ah, let a breath of comfort out.

Farting is comfort. And holding your fart is denying yourself of comfort. That form of denial saves lives…
Let that sink in.
Go back in time, to when I mentioned me saving the world. You = my world = the world.
We only leave our comfort zones for the ones we love. Prove me wrong and attack with your wild running imagination, say that we also leave our comfort zones for those we don’t love.

My imagination runs wilder,


one reason why we would leave our comfort zones for the ones we love is because of a benefit on the long
run. For yourself, yourself, yourself, yourself. Myself, myself, myself. We love ourselves.
And now, in real time. Now time.

…how many times have we let ourselves go low, so others might have 20 seconds of happiness?

I’d take half a spoon of sugar, so that you’d be happy.
“I’m supposed to be on a diet, you’re tempting me.”
Okay, I wouldn’t take any sugar.”

I don’t want to go to Church on Sunday.”
“You’re setting a bad example for the kids.”
Okay, I’d go, for them.

“You never take any photos with me.”
I hate my look.
“But you took a photo with J the other day.”
Okay, where’s your phone?”


At all moments, the capes of these heroes flew in the wind. As they denied themselves the comfort of farting, so lives may be saved.





LITTLE rays only. — July 9, 2016

LITTLE rays only.

Lights off.

No cameras please.


Control and Z

Undo every action.


Not all vampires have fangs.

We’re still all blood thirsty.

And also afraid of the bright light.


I myself am shivering from the low temprature that comes from the laying of eyes on me.

Of course I can withstand becoming an Eskimo or burying myself in the snow.


We. Our kind. We do not know. I cannot lie.


There. It has been done again.


And I still am shivering. Only worse this time.

Turn off your eyes please.

They shine too bright.

Even in day time.


I’m not afraid, but we are still so lonely.

We. Vampires with no fangs.

Help us. We cry. But we would not beg.

Stay, but do not turn on you light beaming eyes.

They frighten us.






Bright Nights. — May 8, 2016

Bright Nights.

Let us not try to question.

Or at least ask directly; the things which borders between the line of our conscious and subconscious.

Mud stains that splatter like washed underwear carried into the wind.

Lion roars that banter like empty vessels beat into the rhythm.

Last night something happened,

To all of us, whether awake or sleep in sound.

Our inner gods and inner goddesses,

Whether Medusa or Winter,

They stepped out into bright night

and conversed, or rather spitted out gold

as their words needed no reply and were coated in the finest terracotta.

They spoke in awe and with greatest remarks, giving life meaning,

leaving us with a shine.

Just shining.

They put the shine in.



Trois Mots. — April 29, 2016

Trois Mots.

Time after time.

Even before the lapse of our mutual purpose in life; to reach the end of time.

We will be faced with smiles, and forced to grin.

But time flies, and it always leaves us with the questions we were unable to answer.

Proving unanswered questions to be the shortest of them all.

What is life?

Who am I?

What is love?

Is there God?

And how about existence?



Black Linen 2. — April 28, 2016

Black Linen 2.

Day ten. The care worker filled the register, indicating the days that had passed since Mrs. Sanders was brought into the mental institute.”

“Let me go. Let me go.” Mrs. Sanders cried out calmly but with a fierce fire in her eyes.

“How can you all not understand? Kenneth left and he wrote a letter to all of us telling us where we need to find him.”

She rose up from the bed raising a finger, “You know! You know! It’s all like he wants us to use the letter as a treasure map; we’re missing out on so much fun!” She smiled with her lips but not with her eyes; the fire still laid there.

Commiseration and pity, accompanied by judgmental renditions, filled the atmosphere.

“Susanne is always the religious one, making sure everything had a connect with spirituality and what not. But today, ha! Today I’m on her side! There’s something wrong with this family!”

The second worker had a weary look on her face; she needed to be put out of her misery.

“Are you sure? I mean that sounds funny don’t you think?” she was no doubted in doubt.

“I don’t know what to tell you, but connect the dots with me…”

The two care workers leaned in across desks to stir deeper into the gist. They were able to convince themselves it was not ordinary that the mother was diagnosed with a mental infirmity just afterwards Kenneth went missing after his miraculous surgery.”

The only thing that filled Mrs. Sanders atmosphere were the invisible spirits with only voices. She’d hear them from time to time. Surreal that they weren’t coming from her head, she’d have reason to feed her hunger for conversation.

late night, why are you awake?

“I cannot go to sleep, what if I remember where the letter is, but I remember in my dream, so when I wake I would have forgotten. God wouldn’t be proud.”

Ha ha ha, now the woman speaks of God. She’s forgotten what happened at the church.”

“Mother said that my sins were washed away. It’s all gone now.” She replied in dismissal.

So tell me, why do you still speak to us?”

Face it! you’ve been condemned.

“God doesn’t condemn! he doesn’t. Mother taught me this, I taught Kenneth. Everything will be fine.”

You brought your son into this, they warned you.

She knew she was still friends with us but she lied at the church, the second time.

At least the first time she was young, unconscious lie?

Look, the woman is reminiscing. We’ve lobotomised her.

Her mind had now traced itself to a memory she thought she had discarded; her brain’s recycle bin proved to be functional.

It was a warm day, she was really young and thus not fit to be among the elderly people of the church. She hid at the back of the church, where there was no illumination. A lot of chatter came from the front of the pews. They were ranting about a girl the whole town had been concerned about. Rumor had it that the girl left town to a camp and since her return she’d been getting off the edge, day by day. The girl’s parents being overly religious made a quick recourse to the church for help.

Young Mrs. Sander was keen for being stubborn, hence her audience at the church even after a series of ear pulling by her mother. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be in the midst of the church elders but leaving was no option at that moment for fear of the unknown as well as the thrill of adventure.

A few of the elders were pacing from point to point, looking overly dramatic. They finally spoke to her audience.

“Quickly, quickly, let’s do this before it gets out of hand.”

“Are you sure? I mean…”

“What do you mean am I sure? The child has the devil living in her!”

“You exaggerate. The church has to have permission, this is not news.”

“Protocol will kill the church. Bring the child in.”

The girl was brought in by three men from a room in the church.

“The child is calm, praise be to the Lord.”

After they had restrained her to a chair they began calling the name of the Lord and speaking in Latin, young Mrs. Sanders was intrigued.

“Regna terrae, cantata Deo, psallite Cernunnos…exorcizamus you omnis immundus spiritus…”

The girl had begun to manifest out rightly.

Screams and wails.

Shouts and cries.

“Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spiritus… te rogamus, audi nos!…Benedictus Dea, Matri gloria!”


A resounding scream filled the room. The elders were sure it was not from the child in front of them. It came from the back. The scream was followed by the sound of a fall.

“Who goes there?”


“Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spiritus! Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spiritus! Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spiritus!”

Mrs. Sanders was knee bent at the corner of her ward, using both hands to hit the wall as she screamed in Latin.

“Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spiritus!”

You will kill yourself.

“I have to live! Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spiritus!”

There’s nothing to live for.

“Kenneth, I’m his first love. I have to live! Exorcizamus you omnis immundus spiritus!”

But woman, you killed him.”

to be continued…






Black Linen. — April 21, 2016

Black Linen.

Fear, all that was left in Kenneth. The tender love and care did not add up anymore.

“Doctor, his figures are not on the scale, I’ve never seen anything such as this before.”

The doctor exhaled a lung full of carbon-dioxide, “I was afraid this was going to be the situation.”

It had been eleven months since Kenneth had been facing health turmoils. It began on the evening of new years’ eve, after he had received a letter of termination from his work place. Now he was afraid for what his end had to offer.

Ring, ring! The receptionist picked up the phone and placed it over her ear. She alerted Kenneth that he could now go into the office.

“Kenneth, this is for you… I’m so sorry…”

These words formed back in tragic tranquility. He knew he shouldn’t have been drinking all night and coming in late, but Renae had broken his heart and therapy was not coming through with positive signs. So all that could distract him thereon was liquor.

“Mr Kenneth, I’d advice you stay off liquor, even the tiniest pint…,” his doctor had said to him after he was diagnosed with a liver problem.

Nothing made an atom of sense, the break-up, the alcoholism, the liver problem, the termination. All a link of causation, but still of no sense to Kenneth.

Soon he resorted to drinking again and the battle had become more bloody for him.


Now that Kenneth was certain he was going to die, he kept hoping for Renae to pay him a visit. It was literally his dying wish.

“Kenneth, she didn’t answer any of my messages, do you need me to stop trying?

He turned his head to the other side of the pillow.

It had been over a year since Renae had left him, he was certain she had moved on by now, if not married. She had a lot to offer and yet a lot to accomplish as well.

He understood that she was not going to answer his mother’s messages, but hope was all that he held unto.

“Mrs Sanders, I take it that you’re the mother… we have two options, a trial surgery or euthanasia…. mercy killing.”

Tears and wails,from everyone at the waiting room.

Kenneth had already wailed deep enough in his heart for the choices laid before him to shake him any further.

“Kenneth tell us what to do.”

“I cannot make this choice for him.”

Now the fear had faded away, and all that was left was a memory of Renae the night their car broke down. They parked the car on the side of the highway and walked a distance. The stars were well lit and Kenneth swore he saw a shooting star.


He made a wish; that they would last forever.

And as if she too had wished for same or telepathically taken vows, they shared a kiss.

Kenneth closed his eyes and went to a place called home.

“Have you seen him?”

“Have you found the letter?”

“I need to trace back his steps!”

“At what time did you hear the door open?”

“How can that be? I have two alarm systems set up here. Think again!”

“Okay wait, I think I know where the letter might be, in the store room. No, wait. That’s been locked for months now. So that means it must have been put it in the stationery shelf… Its not there?… We’ve checked before now?… Where is he?… Did I forget to take him out of his room after prayer time?… No, no that was last week… I think this house is too big, we need to write down all the names of the rooms so we know those we have checked.”

“Okay I’ll do that.”

“But how about the fridge? sometimes I leave things in there. I leave things in a number of places…No! don’t call the caretakers! they’re too harsh, they aren’t nice, please don’t!”


to be continued…


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