Your life is filled with Power. In '72 its abuse was the cause of your forced exile, when you were just a thought in your mother's heart, and at the same time that was the sharpening tool that filed down your weaknesses and ignited in you a spark of resilience. Now the surge caused by the growing of your talents is almost explosive: the patience to await the right time almost as powerful as the audacity to dream beyond our means.
You know who you are - the power of identity kept you behaving like a king despite torn clothing.
You know who you want to be - not by your own power, but by the higher one of your redemption giver.
It is an honour to be inspired by you, my best friend, my life companion, and to dream of children who will carry with them a seed of your powerful life.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Birth Control (a poem)
There was no
counting of the fertile days nor
choice of what colour, flavour, texture
of condom to use
whenever uncle's unrepressed libido would trigger his instincts
straight past his brain
up her skirt and in-between her thighs.
No good manners, no foreplay, nice words or a sweet crescendo
in his rough handling of her body against the cold bedroom wall;
careful only not to leave a trace of the act
on her school uniform,
the one he had bought
with his government job salary,
the one she was paying back
with the freshness of her 14 years.
14 years old this world-class expert
in the code of silence:
no tears, no screams, not even a counselling session in which to admit
the truth to herself...
Until...
...the truth grew bigger, and started to emerge
from under her school uniform
the one she had been repaying in installments
whenever her uncle was in town
before he was transferred to the North,
before she started getting beaten by her father
for getting impregnated
by God-knows-whom
for disregarding the sacrificial generosity
of her uncle, who
was paying for her school fees
so that she could have a better future.
counting of the fertile days nor
choice of what colour, flavour, texture
of condom to use
whenever uncle's unrepressed libido would trigger his instincts
straight past his brain
up her skirt and in-between her thighs.
No good manners, no foreplay, nice words or a sweet crescendo
in his rough handling of her body against the cold bedroom wall;
careful only not to leave a trace of the act
on her school uniform,
the one he had bought
with his government job salary,
the one she was paying back
with the freshness of her 14 years.
14 years old this world-class expert
in the code of silence:
no tears, no screams, not even a counselling session in which to admit
the truth to herself...
Until...
...the truth grew bigger, and started to emerge
from under her school uniform
the one she had been repaying in installments
whenever her uncle was in town
before he was transferred to the North,
before she started getting beaten by her father
for getting impregnated
by God-knows-whom
for disregarding the sacrificial generosity
of her uncle, who
was paying for her school fees
so that she could have a better future.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Psalm 51
He sat comfortably at the place of God
who was too polite to stay
where He was not desired,
too dignified to squat in His own house
after my unwritten notice of eviction.
Now I talk to myself,
words bouncing round the empty room,
a discoloured polaroid letting me know
what the joy of His salvation looked like.
How do I dismantle this idol of my own making -
one of flesh and bone, that I can see and touch -
and start believing again
that God is not too proud to return?
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