Bite the bullet

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This is a short narrative of prodigals highlighting destructive passions, friendship roles, a mother’s unrequited love and second chances. When you bite the bullet, do you allow it to swallow you whole?

Across the table,
Kane sat upright,
Brows furrowed,
With eyes heavy as a leafy covering on ripe corn,
A clear indication of burdens harvested through years of tears;
The weather outside was calm with a clear overcast,
Yet not so subtle sheen of sweats was starting to make a show on his forehead,
He relaxed his gaze,
And spoke so quietly that he was almost inaudible,
He was laboring in speech,
And his gestures suggested obscured, deeper thoughts going through his mind,
His skin was puckered a little around the scar on the left side of the face,
He confessed that his jaws were still sore,
And a good number of teeth had been knocked out,
The scars pitted his cheeks;
Luckily, they were scars, not wounds,
Garnered from “warranted pats” not wild punches,
They were one with him, especially when grazed,
With a sad tone of a faraway look,
He had an eyeful of grief,
And a beaten mouthful of distress,
I saw neither a lingering nor light of recognition,
Of my old-time friend in him,
He was just but a shell of his former self.

No iota of doubt that life had him by the scruffs of his neck,
I had lost track of time;
Kane hadn’t been around for quite a long while,
Not after he won the village contest,
And made away with a hefty reward,
Gone like the desert locust,
In the wee hours of the morning;
He didn’t even say goodbye,
Perhaps assuming I would ask for a portion,
From his rightfully earned spoils,
Like the way, everyone was doing –
Trolling him everywhere,
Like vultures onto a lion that had just made a sumptuous kill –
Hunger indeed knows no shame;
Kane’s mother, Regina, came undone after learning about his underhand deed,
He eloped with a village prostitute and all that hoard of cash,
Not a dime preserved for his mother and siblings,
A habit which all good home-grown sons were not subjective to;
Kane left without a trace,
Leaving behind a trail of pain and wretched misgivings,
A whack on his mother’s face who had supported him,
Unconditionally,
Even goaded the daring acts of training that saw him make it to the final,
Regina was the brains behind all those flawless fighting strategies,
And he, the brawn, executing the techniques they’d formulated –
Neat and clean –
With zero fail probabilities;
She used to attend the trials to ride shotgun for his firstborn son,
Even further,
Acting in utter defiance to the set rules of: “No woman is allowed near the boxing ring”,
She bared her teeth every other time the chief’s henchmen tried to block her way in,
Fighting,
Unrelenting,
Through the swarm of muscles cramped at the entrance,
With impressive stealth,
She had always managed to make it past them on tournament evenings;
Eventually,
The village chief gave up,
Subsequently relaxed the restrictions for her,
And let her be, on conditions of anonymity;
Love knew no boundary,
A woman determined can just make streams run uphill,
So they say.

Putting all the skills she learnt from her late husband into practice,
Regina helped him secure the village’s heavyweight boxing championship,
An astounding legacy to honor his husband’s memory,
Through the crowning of his son;
The day she learnt of her son’s misdeeds,
She was disconsolate,
Shrinking into herself,
She threw no tantrums like the gang of melodramatic village women,
Who knew how to make a scene in times of crisis and brokenness,
She cradled her misery in silence,
And many waited with anticipation,
Hoping she’d let loose,
Perhaps blow up once the searing agony reaches its threshold,
Eventually,
She never did!
Her mind was a wall,
She had survived in the prison of pain, first introduced by her late husband,
She had learned how to contain the thunder churning within her clouded life,
She wasn’t going to break,
She wasn’t going to give that satisfaction to the ocean of prying eyes –
Not even a drop of tear to appease the moment,
Her clouds lacked that type of rain;
She did feel betrayed,
Maliciously used and abandoned,
It was depressing –
Her loyalty was bruised,
How it was exchanged, overnight, for a crown of thorns,
It was encouraging too,
Her likeable synergies –
She knew where to channel that influx of negative energy!

Shifting on his seat,
Kane took another sip of the lemonade,
Probably to refresh his withered breath,
He had talked and over talked himself hoarse,
He was squeezing everything out of his burdened heart,
Eyes fluttering,
He rubbed his lean nose,
Tufts of hair protruding,
And made a pained sigh;
A pitiable and docile look,
Showed a man who had resigned from life,
And all the slurs doled at him,
A man whose top attractive crust of existence was abraded,
And what remained was something distasteful,
Flaky and Dry,
Clearing his throat,
He narrated how he went south,
Rode tandem with the wanton girl,
Finding adventure along the slope of her thighs,
He loved her the way his dad loved the bottle,
He found her intoxicating,
An addiction he did not want to get over…
His late father could gobble down the whole bottle of that fermented stuff,
Only stopping to take a breath;
But what he didn’t tell her is,
Kane’s father lost the sense to the bottle,
And eventually,
His life too.

The two had exhilarating escapades,
Unhindered, youthful frolicking filled the tumbler of their days,
Everything fun sorted for cash on the barrel-head,
He thrived in a fancy,
A sweet but foolish fancy rooted in clownish innocence,
And nourished by seclusion,
It flourished into a wild passion fervid enough to burn anything that stood in his way,
Kane seemed to have money to burn,
He banked on extravagant lifestyle – but then,
A fool and his money are soon parted…
The playful coquettish woman had sided with the thing he never had – riches,
To say the least,
He had neither of the two,
She left him as quick as she came.

Reddened,
His eyes had made an ado of rapid blinks,
Signifying tears starting to well up,
He had sniffed,
And wiped them,
Not permitting them to see their outlet;

Three weeks of romping ended in gauche excuses and casual goodbyes,
He recalls the self-satisfied, scornful demeanor,
Which she wore on a fateful morning,
That oversaw their break up,
Sleep had not yet left his eyes,
But he could remember what he saw,
Especially the surface smugness that had corrupted her face,
“Your pockets are dry, I don’t think you can sustain me anymore” she blatantly expressed,
It was a well-staged delivery,
Deceptive and pathetic,
The pain in his heart like crashing waves of the sea,
Pounding and rumbling,
Her words had sunk the heart in his chest,
He had violently grabbed her forearm and pulled her close,
Thick callous hands refusing to let her go,
Pressing her petite body against his frame,
She had gasped for breath,
His eyes flashing with murderous intent,
“I am not just a toy to be used and dumped when you get tired of me”
He could read the panic in her eyes,
Her fears slipping into his skin,
Kicking and squirming,
She had screamed,
Alerting the whole motel in the early hours of the morning,
The management broke the door down,
Ramming into it,
The frame succumbing to the splintering kicks and multiple attacks by a crude metal object,
“He abducted me and was trying to rape me”
Brazen lies she told,
Without batting an eyelid;
Disappointed,
Bewildered,
Kane tried to talk himself out of the situation,
But no one wanted to hear his side of the story,
The crowd was hungry for blood,
Lock, stock and barrel;
Not even his boxing manoeuvres and defenses could save him from the raging onslaught,
As five men descended upon him with kicks and blows,
His punishment was long overdue,
His goose had been cooked,
Kane was arrested,
Ferried to the local police station,
Prosecuted and charged with abduction, attempted rape and falsification of identity,
A foreigner he was,
Dragged into a judicial quagmire,
Left to grapple with the weight of something he never did,
His only crime was loving,
Loving foolishly.

Kane did 5 years of jail term,
Endured excruciating horrors in the hands of real-time punks,
He couldn’t remember the number of nights he’d howled in pain,
Beaten,
Bloodied by his fellow jail mates for refusing to subscribe to their cult,
Then the leader of the cult persistent determination –
With clenched fists,
Husky sound,
His smile, slow and sinister,
Eyes flashing something feral,
Bubbles of spittle shining on his lips,
Self-important tone,
As he makes treacherous accusations at him,
He was always an unshakeable ghost at night,
Kane fought not to buckle under his glare,
He withstood not giving in to the cult,
But the tears he had ever fought before came pouring out,
Each and every night;
Kane sort for immunity, reprieve,
It was an alien idea,
But after a couple of months, it came through one of the prison’s warden,
Kane had helped him read a postcard from his wife,
And hence earned privileges on his good side,
The guard vouched for him –
A reward, for his little act of kindness,
He was transferred to another cell,
Hosting like-minded inmates like him;
Lonely nights had become a norm to him,
Nights where your mind was awake as your body sleeps,
Horrific nights where bedbugs were estranged friends of benefits.

On one particular night,
Under the phosphorescent blue of the moonlight,
Peering through a crack on the window,
Dimly illuminating his pallid face,
His grounds had shifted;
Kane was sitting on a rough parchment flooring,
His back against the cold, unforgiving concrete wall,
He was contemplating suicide,
He had literally boxed himself into a corner,
“I have lost everything dear to me and I don’t have the courage to go back home “, he had thought,
Life was a blunder, a damaging mistake,
Death seemed more desirable than life,
Could he take the chance? Could he roll the dice?

Seemingly,
Ironically,
God plays no dice.

The wind was blowing gently across the windowpane,
Making a whistling sound, a lullaby of the night,
He remembered a prayer his mother used to murmur,
She could whip a handheld wooden cross over his face, side to side,
Her faced scrunched up in concentration,
Mumbling a few words under a suppressed voice,
It was a habitual act – ritualistic in kind,
Apparently, all those years watching her do it,
Made those words sink into his memory vault,
To his own amazement,
Kane found himself chanting the exact words,
His breath warmed the chills in the air,
A strange thrum had filled his senses,
A thought, incandescent, had gripped his mind,
He was aware of the halo of magic around him,
Like he was being floated by some supernatural energy,
He couldn’t tell what really transpired that night,
But on that evening, he pledged loyalty to Christ.

A year later,
Kane, among five other men, were pardoned by the highest office in that region,
They had done quite an exemplary work of coordinating correctional programs in the facility,
Their deeds attracted the eyes of certain high ended officials,
And secured them a rare commendation,
“Where will you go from here?” asked one of the five men released,
He had smiled,
And shifted sight, eastward,
His wishful face prompting the man to fix his gaze on him,
“A child climbing a tall tree with a thin rope is destined to fall abruptly,
And when he crumbles,
His feet don’t forget the path home,”
He had asserted.

Kane took in a large volume of air,
Then exhaled slowly,
Straightening up on his seat,
He reached across the table,
And grabbed my hand,
His touch felt awkward,
Cold clammy fingers imposing weight on my skin,
A bit fragile than I remembered, for a boxing champ,
A puzzled expression shone on my face,
This compelled him to make a quick assertion,

“I hear my mum is still asking about my whereabouts,
I caused her a lot of pain,
I don’t deserve her forgiveness, but I’m willing to ask for it anyway –
My heart is restless,
It yearns for peace, but I lack the courage,
Mike, will you help me talk to her,
Perhaps, clean up my messy house, slay the demon of my past?”

Kane’s face was highly spirited,
His eyes, dogged,
Blended well with the conciliatory tone –
It was inspiring!
I had missed the friendly smile on his face,
And the easy-going approach he had towards life,
He was the big brother I never had,
A bit rough along the edges but soft and squishy on the inside,
He was a man, like any other, who had acted foolishly,
Desperately,
It was a common temporal flop,
He was manipulated by lust,
And wounded by his own folly,
Under the false pretense of love;
“But, who am I, to deny him reconciliation,
Besides,
Love can never be wise – and that is its wisdom.” I had thought.

“Yes, brother. I will”

Confession in a Library

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This is a story of man’s encounter with God through a woman’s love; God is love, right?

Eric eyed her surreptitiously,
But with intent,
He made to talk to her,
And so waited for traffic to ease,
When the coast was clear,
He hurriedly made his way across the road,
The sounds of his footsteps – muffled,
Not to arouse any unnecessary attention,
Almost tripping on the side footsteps,
He managed to execute an approach,
Without talking himself out of it,
He immediately cut to the chase,
Not interested in wasting time in common pleasantries,
“Miss, I couldn’t help but notice…Well, I’ve always noticed, that you are perpetually smiling” he said,
“What’s the secret?” he continued with casual inquisition,
The lady slightly raised her head,
Flashed her signature smile,
But went on dusting the roadside display shelf of the bookshop,
He was no stranger to her, in fact,
She had caught him in his prying escapades,
Not once, not twice,
But he’d always been too consumed in his thoughts,
Not to notice her looking his way,
A familiar case of ‘lights on, but nobody’s home’
She didn’t waste time indulging in neanderthal questions too,
Dipping the sponge in a bucket full of soapy water,
“I love God”, she said exuberantly;
“Everytime I breathe in, air tickles my smiling fur, and I smile”, she continued, rather jokingly –
“And oh, my name is Mary…Thank you for asking”, she cheerfully added,
The girl could smile nine times out of ten,
The curve of her lips made smiling easy for her,
Her upper lip and lower lip interacted like egg and bacon on a breakfast plate,
They articulated her enchanting responses perfectly,
And with Eric at close range,
It was hard navigating his senses in the unknown sea of her charm,
Smiling nervously,
“Oh, silly me, forgive my lack of courtesy – nice to meet you Mary – I’m Eric… Eric Swabs.”
She nodded in response,
Smiling again with acknowledgement,
There was a period of melancholic silence between them,
As she pushed the overhanging shelves back into their space,
Her hands stretched well over her head,
She did put quite an effort realigning the board edges attached to the surface of the wall,
And Eric was torn between helping her or just sitting it out,
Eventually he settled for the latter,
Petrified of appearing too forward to a comparative stranger,
While her movements motioned her going back inside the library,
Eric’s buoyant face was starting to fade,
He didn’t know how to continue,
But forced himself to speak,
His voice husky, coming out prematurely,
“I…I’d like to know about this God you mentioned” he said cautiously, avoiding petty eye glances,
Mary picked her cleaning rags and bucket,
And gestured with her free hand,
“Well, come inside, I have a relatable story” she responded with amusement,
She pulled the door and went in,
The door creaked as it swinged on its hinges,
Suggestive of the fact that it had seen better days,
Eric followed in with a flurry of quick steps,
An arm’s length away from her,
Careful not to draw attention to himself,
Or appearing a bit uppish,
The library was tidy and organised,
And the spaces between shelves were well lit,
The silence therein was condemning,
As though the book of life was opened,
And judgement was being passed upon him,
He noticed that familiar smell of old books,
The kind which invades your lungs and reminds you that life is a historical book,
A script which was there before man came,
And no mortal can outlive it;
How he dreaded to be in such an environment where written words had more power,
Over his thoughts,
Than any medicine he’d been exposed to,
But he still followed her,
Eyes focused on the price,
He thought,
He appeared to have an incurable thing for her,
Especially the way her ponytail was bouncing off the nape of her neck,
With each step she took,
He watched with an interested look,
It was a sight to have and behold,
Like all his blood had suddenly pooled there in one surge,
Her desk was orderly with few piles of paper scattered atop it,
“Please, have a chair,” she said warmly,
Taking a seat on his left,
“Thank you, Ms Mary…” his voice trailed off,
“Mary Hadassa”, she quickly asserted,
He had feigned surprise,
“Mhhh, Hadassa, what a lovely name” he said firmly with a playful tone,
But Eric had done his homework well,
He knew better than just picking any book from a shelf,
Without reading the prologue,
“So, Ms Hadassa, your smile is as expressive as a stunning ancient mural of an immortal, what’s the secret? ‘ he charmingly professed,
He had managed to assume an easygoing posture on the seat,
And while his face shone awkwardly revealing the sharp curiosity within,
She had flashed a confident smile back,
Leaned towards him propping her chin with both hands on the table,
And locked eyes,
She confidently took the glimmer in his eyes,
Brow to brow,
And gracefully responded,
“My smile is influenced by a man I met two years ago”
Upon this mentioning,
Colour had washed off his face,
He had swallowed hard,
And the smile he had struggled to put up to hide the discomfort on first encounters,
Was now quickly eroding,
like gas fizzing out of a bottled drink,
And so did the confidence he had really worked so hard to uphold,
He had leaned further onto his seat to hide his disappointment,
A move subtly executed to control his breathing rate,
Twiddling his thumbs,
His gaze had started to shift from side to side,
“Eeee…An…and who might this man be, if you don’t mind telling” he said,
Stumbling over his words,
A crooked smile flanged with easy undertones showed,
She could easily tell he was drawn to the corner of discouragement,
A familiar countenance from a man who had hoped for more,
More space,
More life,
He’d simulated a rigid stance on the seat,
And the irregular movement of his eyes had betrayed him,
It was irrefutable not to say he was uncomfortable in his own housing,
“I have read so many books from this library,
But I have never encountered a character close to half as good as this man ” she continued,

” See, I met a man.
A man not so young, and not that old,
But a man with time-honored words which have connected like dots through history –
Without any fail;
A man wearing a humble weather-beaten face,
But, with an attitude, not withered from the realities of life,
He taught me how to go far in the universe without actually moving,
He taught me how to walk in the sun without getting tanned,
He taught me how to work on myself without working myself out,
He taught me how to sing loudly without opening my mouth,
He taught me how to listen without hearing the voice of judgement,
He taught me how to think without burning out from thoughts,
He taught me how to give without receiving,
He taught me how to run things without putting any shoe on,
He taught me how to draw sketches with a blunt pen without making a mess,
He taught me how to be mindful without minding unnecessary things,
He taught me how to ride on wheels of justice without exercising my rightful will on the unjust,
He taught me how to reason without finding any faulty reason not to reason,
He taught me how to fall in love without failing in love,
He taught me how to be real without focusing too much on my reality,
He taught me how to be more like him without being less like me!
He was a man unlike any I had ever seen, or met …
This man takes care of me like a father,
This man is closer than a brother,
This man listens to me without passing judgement, a friend in times of need… ”

Eric listened to her go on and on without interrupting,
The muscle of her cheeks flexing,
Mesmerising,
Her voice hardly louder,
But more than a whisper,
Her face had this pensive look of a child staring through the window on a rainy evening,
While listening to the teletoons song playing from the stereo,
Her eyes shone bright as a candle flame in a dark corridor,
And she spoke like one who recently had a special encounter with an angel of light,
The spill was so divine,
He couldn’t resist bathing in the warm light radiating from her face,
Her voice oscillated in his mind with an energy irresistible,
Crippling,
He was so lost in reverie and didn’t realize she was now quiet,
And that it was his time to make a response,
When it finally dawned on him that she had finished speaking,
He found her staring at him expectantly,
His face had flushed with the embarrassment of a boy caught ogling,
“Ah, sorry, so silly of me”, he confessed,
She just smiled and busied herself with checking the time from her wrist watch,
Clearing her throat,
“Uhmm, would you want to meet this man? ” she asserted again,
“I’d love to show you to Him”
She had fixed him with a firm but affectionate stare,
The man looked at her instinctively,
Felt a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach,
A hopeless sting had pained his heart,
He was discouraged,
But knew he had nothing more to lose,
After all,
He had taken a step of courage to approach her,
And the vagaries of the outcomes mattered less if taken with a thoughtful tinge of kindness,
“Yeah, sure, I’d like to meet him” he calmly responded.

Her face had quickly lit up like a bulb at the wake of his response,
She had straightened her dress,
Ridding it from the slight wrinkles it had gathered,
Stretching to her left,
She had pulled the upper drawer of her cabinet,
Drew a dinky little book with a peach colored cover,
The book bore a reflective golden yellow colour along the edges of its papers,
With multiple grooves angled on its side segregating the pages,
They had a unique alphabetic arrangement,
Grunting as she closed the drawer,
She placed the book on the table,
Then quietly skimmed through it,
Her face attentive, darting from side to side,
The man sat restless,
Waiting,
Like a first time law breaker listening to the multiple counts of offense,
Levied against him,
He hadn’t thrown in the towel,
But was relegated to a simple stare,
A look keen as that of a juniour explorer,
Who was not given clearance to touch the specimen on the table,
As directed by his seniors who were far much experienced,
Mary appeared so determined,
Going through her clouded brain,
Searching for a particular page in that book,
Disapproving other pages and leafing to the next,
Intent on showing a just cause to a considerable empirical input for him,
“Ah ha! There you are ” she exclaimed,
She had jerked him from an unsound stillness,
And while her expression was priceless,
She had mumbled something under her breath,
Which was followed by an unusual click of the tongue,
For a moment, he thought this ‘man’ of hers who was presumably hiding,
Had just majestically popped up from thin air,
“I found directions to my man on this script over here…”
She was pointing at a highlighted verse on the book,
“Afterwards, I went fervently in search for him, here, take a look ” she said happily,

He had taken note of her stretched index finger,
It might have been presumptuous of him,
To think of those fine looking fingers,
Their attractive appearance and texture,
Making scintillating rounds through his brown hair,
But that thought ran through his mind for a few seconds;
Eric didn’t raise his eyes no high than that,
Perhaps avoiding her eyes preying into his lustful thoughts,
Handing the book over to him with casual friendliness,
He took to read,
‘And you will seek Me and find Me, when you search for Me with all your heart’
A perplexed look had soaked him quiet,
As thoughts pondering remained awash for a couple of seconds,
He had made a gradual attempt to tilt his neck up,
Only to find her motionless,
Wordless,
Looking back at him,
Eric was transfixed by her gaze,
If he didn’t know better,
He could have sworn her eyes were a bit flirtatious,
Yet the more she stared,
The more he didn’t want her to stop,
He had struck gold in a foreign land,
A wealth of emotions hanged heavily between them,
Her eyes had involuntarily excused itself from that sentimental encounter,
Pulling away,
“I found Christ, and you could too, Eric – even now! He is the reason, the breath beneath my incessant smiles,” she said cheerfully,
Eric had never before been confounded like this,
An avalanche of two attractions – one carnal,
And another Godlike,
Both weighing in on him with unusual grace;
It was a clever introduction to Christianity,
Something which had never crossed his mind,
He had thought being good didn’t have to have a directive to it,
He could be good all by himself in his own way,
Yet here stood a girl he had quietly trailled for a while,
A girl whose face shone every day, in more than one way but every lustre bore the same glow,
Her personality was a book translated in different languages,
And every language had the same meaning – love,
And his attraction to her was inexplicably unfounded,
Going beyond physical allure and rational sense,
He found himself drawn to her without much thought,
He had picked something more from her body language that morning,
A foreign energy that had leaked away,
He could feel the weight of her questions on him,
It was like this moment was drafted in the books of histories,
Long before he even took consciousness of it,
There was some uncontrollable appeal to the shape of her sentences,
A powerful surge taking effect,
Like the sudden restructuring of the cosmos,
Circumventing the hard square stand he had before,
Perhaps towards something real, something tangible,
“I’ve never felt this way before, I’ve read the bible countable times ,but never have had this conviction in mind, a force curving itself through the heart of my being, ” he sorrowfully admitted,
“Well, I can help you understand what you’re experiencing right now, in fact, this will come as a surprise, but I’ve been dreaming about you for a while now, I was waiting for you to come ” she joyfully retorted,

She took his hand into hers,
And had requested to pray with him,
An awestruck expression had encompassed his face,
But he felt confident,
Relaxed under the warmth of her hands and the radiance of her gaze,
The sound of her words championed the truth to the answers he had sought before –
The unshakable attraction that he’d had for her giving him sleepless nights –
Why he had always melted every time she looked her direction,
And found it impossible not to stare right back at her,
The gnawing anxiety that viciously compelled him to go talk to her,
Though found himself short and at a loss for words when he approached the entrance door to the library,
Why his breath faltered at the onslaught of her angelic smile,
Was this attraction something unnaturally good or did it have a far reaching divine purpose to it?

The man believed in her,
And that’s how he ended up believing in God too,
He had wondered if a powerful being,
Busy with coordinating the programme of the entire universe,
Had one afternoon sat down by the ocean shores,
Sipping an ice cold lemonade,
And while watching the sea gulls swooping down to make a kill at the fish eating plankton,
Took special interest in him,
And found him worthy of the woman of his dreams,
Then, He was more worthy of praise,
And deserving of his heart too.

Silentdreamer 💭

Heaven’s not slack, Got your back!

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(Photo by Beth Salgueiro, Pinterest)

Have you ever alighted from a matatu,
Taken ten steps in the opposite direction,
Felt a little different,
A tad lighter than before,
And its not because you can hear yourself think clearly,
In an atmosphere free from loudspeakers with blaring music;
Tentatively,
You consult your favourite pocket,
Then there’s that strange sharp pain in your chest,
Like blades shredding raw flesh,
I thought I had my phone with me!
Second guessing your memory,
Frantically,
You frisk yourself,
Before the grim realization finally dawns – your phone is missing, 
Your heart takes flight,
The numbing chest ache swooshes in,
Air starts to get thin,
Eyes almost watering –
You dropped your 2 weeks old phone in a matatu,
Now speeding away down the street as you watch helplessly,
Nearing a sharp turn,
Flickering rear light indicates movements to the left,
And vanishes …

Action – reaction features in reflex,
Off like a prom dress,
You hop on a motorbike,
Your breath is shallow,
With voice trembling,
You make some few inaudible commands to the boda guy,
To follow the matatu that just made its way down the busy street,
He says ‘Pardon’, 
Aggravated,
Takes great amount of restraint to keep yourself from barking an order,
You calmly repeat yourself,
There are a lot of white colored matatus which have taken that route,
He isn’t sure which one,
But you command him to just go,
You will help him sanction the right directions,
If patience is a well than runs deep and never runs dry,
Then yours just did;
The motorbike whisking away,
Sharp corners,
Screeching,
You’re almost falling off,
An untimely bump,
Unseen,
Immethodically executed,
Shoves you into the boda guy’s back,
You adjust your awkward position,
Out of the corner of his eye,
He apologizes,
His apology came too soon,
Running into a puddle,
A little splash there,
Aaaarghh!
Ruins your favorite silky blouse,
Seems like today the devil took to the streets,
And defeated you hands down;
Still in pursuit,
Your head bobbing up and down,
Right eyelid twitching involuntarily,
Your stomach reeling uncomfortable knots,
You are dogged to the marrow,
There’s no stopping,
You can’t digest the unpalatable fact that your phone is getting away again,
For the second time barely a month in between.

Upon arrival,
Your head is swimming in hopeless thoughts,
You don’t know where to start,
You start combing through the expanse of the crowded bus stage,
Armed with a blurred image of a white matatu,
With an acrylic painting of a man with a sneering face,
Brandishing a gold plaited handgun;
And possessing mismatched rear tyres –
Unusually large,
You remember the matatu’s sacco imprint from the vehicle’s lateral view,
But a fleeting glimpse of memory remains;
After a tireless run through with an imprudent resolve,
You finally make contact with the fateful ride,
Idly parked at the stage,
The metal door left ajar,
What are the chances that someone hasn’t got to it first?
Your eyes are weary from the bright afternoon sunlight ,
Your skin is tanned from the blistering sun,
Your palms feels sweaty,
Your breath is spent,
With moves snappy,
You approach the customer service desk,
Panting,
You casually introduce yourself,
The attendant looks up with displeasure at the unwelcomed intrusion,
You state your predicament to the man behind the booth’s desk,
A disgusted look of indifference flashes,
He’s reluctant to help out,
He brands you ‘careless and inattentive’,
With an insenstive dismissal,
He trashes your story as cheap rhetoric used by wannabe goons,
You open your mouth to defend yourself,
He raises his eyebrows,
Disarming your intention,
You walk away feeling stung,
Both the driver and the conductor are out on a break,
They operate strictly from on-call shifts,
Not the real operators along that route,
You approach another attendant sitted close-by,
He’s chewing on a green substance,
He’s sober though,
Unfortunately,
The second attendant can’t pinpoint their whereabouts,
But invites you to peruse through the vehicle,
Yanking the metal door open,
Your breath spikes again,
Heart starts to throb,
Your eyes guide themselves to where you were sitted,
You probe through the seats of the matatu and its rusty flooring,
Nothing!
An exasperated sigh sweeps in,
You take another check from front to back,
Squeezing through the uneven spaces,
Ignoring  the litter at the bottom of those compounded seats,
And the merciless musty reek wafting from fruit peelings choking away your breath,
Nothing again!

Frustrating emotions,
Anxiety gnawing,
Irritant thoughts thrown in overdrive,
You feel like a bungled painting,
You need to draw the line between fact and assumption,
But you can’t think rationally at the moment,
You choose to take a seat at the matatu,
(Where your bed is made – there you lie)
You relax your mind,
Contemplating your next move,
Maybe first inform the authorities,
And start saving up for a new phone,
Your stomach turns knowing your bank account is nowhere near salvation,
You’re already bogged down with debts,
With your head bowed,
In a prayer like posture,
Pangs of disappointment having a field day in your psyche,
An unguarded tap graces your left shoulder,
Startled,
You look up,
And right there before you,
The elusive conductor stands, 
Donning a knowing look, 
Like superman at the top of ruins – victorious over diabolical plots,
Your eyes can’t help but glimmer with excitement,
You stare at him with childlike curiosity,
Says he doesn’t know you and doesn’t know how,
But something in him knew you would come for the phone,
He was just waiting,
He knows better than to steal from strangers,
He confesses to be a saint .. not a cheap thief!

Heaven is not something we find,
Heaven finds us,
In the right place;
Like sheeps,
When we feel lost,
Abandoned,
Heaven comes searching,
Saving ..

Silentdreamer 💭

The Cross ✝

Screenshot_20200410_223416

Scene of reckoning;
Calvary’s painted in a bloody slaughterous hue –
O, the mood of anarchy,
Dark as the pool of sin mortals wallow in,
Yet compellingly touching,
As the saviours’ love-filled lamb-like sacrifice,
Offering no resistance to these casts of injustice;
How cowardly it would have been,
If Christ hadn’t committed himself to His words:

” Greater love has no one than this,
than to lay down one’s life for his friends”

He never wanted this course!
But what is happiness,
If our course,
No matter how dangerous,
Doesn’t consist in the strands of acceptance!
Would His character have been completely,
Out of character?
Wanting to do what is pleasing to the spirit,
But being flagged down by the weakness housing it!
How cowardly it would have been,
If He had chose to act in rebellion,
Develop cold feet halfway down calvary –
His rightful path to greatness,
What if he had sneered at the script,
Mock the nobility of his role,
Betray his part,
And slur all his lines!
Would that have ruefully distort,
Not just the frequency of his workmanship,
But also the motives behind his rhetorics,

” … to seek and save the lost …”

Would you have played along with this half-hearted fiasco,
The snub of a Savior- in -fugitive!

I know I wouldn’t!

And neither my silence nor my speech,
Would have been written down,
But if idly asked to speak,
My speech would obviously not disguise my thoughts!
Our freedom right now would have been at the bottom of a very dark pit,
Sniffling the dust of shame –
What a dishonourable name –
Soliciting mercy at the feet of the law which presumably,
We were supposed to be delivered from,
As grace muddled in a hopeless state of terror!
Our freedom would not even be in existence;
In fact, the law would put on a smirk,
While delivering countless scourge,
At our delectable body of sin!
Our current state : ABANDONED!
Abandoned by the ‘runaway redeemer’,
Left to grapple with the weight of sin,
And the rich color of its stain!

” What can wash away my stain,
Nothing but the blood of Jesus … ”
(🎶)

Our freedom consisted,
In His ability to selflessly choose death,
And just as easily extinguishing His hot embered mortal desires,
Then committing to this decision :

” My father if there’s no other way, then I must suffer … ” He sorrowfully expressed.

A crown of thorns on His head –
When He had nothing more to loose,
He became the labyrinth of the universe,
The soul of everything :

“… that at His feet all knee will bow …”

When He ceased to be who He was –
The flogging made him a canvas,
The whip like an artist’s brush on His back,
Skillfully damaging,
Rather meticulously painting, His earthen body,
With the vigour of Leonardo da Vinci,
And the unparalled mastery of Mia tavonatti’s,
13-foot stained-glass mosaic of the crucifixion –
That the canvas of our lives,
May remain engraved in His passionately skilled hands;
When He experienced great sadness –
Betrayed by a stray lamb from his fold,
As the rest scatter away into hiding,
Then to be denied at close quarters with His prayer partner;
I wonder,
How quick did “Hosanna in the Highest”,
Turn to acrimonious chants  :

” Crucify Him! ”

” Crucify Him! ”

Where were the 5000 men He fed,
And all the innumerable, pitiable souls He healed?
Hadn’t all His spiritual food not fattened hope for their lives?
You would have thought all this miraculous workings sharpened His purpose for them!

” No health in your bones because of your sin ”

Still He soldiered on to fateful Golgotha,
Putting on a determined front,
Swallowing hard as wood can be,
As if to make believe the destination ahead was brighter …
He understood that He was free to choose His destiny,
But He couldn’t disown His purpose,
He had to lose that I may gain,
He had to bleed that I may live –
No matter how sin-ridden I was,
He had to be broken that I may be made whole.

What a scene of reckoning!
A naked bloodied man hanging on a tree,
Housing cold rusty steel nails driven into guiltless hands –
The most abominable form of punishment ..

That we might be reconciled to God,
In one body,
Through the cross.

Silentdreamer 💭

Believing in Advance

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“..he stared at the cosmos,
Perharps searching…
Whisked in a beat;
The heavens said,
“Look at me!,
I’m the work of His hands,
Isn’t His love beautiful?
The little you see,
Is just a whisper,
A whisper of God’s power at work,
How little you would understand,
If this whisper,
Ever turned into thunder…”,

More than faith,
He believed!

Silentdreamer💭©2017