Re-Runs (Second Chances)

Poetry is a woman whose palette has been seasoned by pain and bitterness and I indulge her every time she comes calling. Our love affair is everything unconventional. She doesn’t call every time I don’t just to say goodnight. In fact, she doesn’t miss me.

But when the rhymes and rhythms are stripped, we are left with a story crafted in the crucible of pain, anger, and self-doubt so allow me to regale you with the tale that is everything story and nothing poetic.

Disclaimer: The following story has been rated sensitive. It may contain images unsuitable for persons under the poetic influence.

Siku ni August

  1. niko 1 shy of
  2. but I guess it don’t matter kama wewe ni wa
  3. hundreds. Mifuko zangu zilikuwa zimekauka kama those Rongai jokes. Nilikuwa na
  4. bob nikienda kwa canteen and that’s when I met the wrong guy, no joke, mwenye alihijack path yangu to Mr. Right. Akasema hi, kawaida yangu ilikuwa kumlenga lakini this day I must have been high ju nilipata nikimjibu.
  5. minutes later akiniambia I’m beautiful –I guess ni vile aliisema- nikamwambia akuwe careful ju beauty fools. And after all, I’m not just a piece of meat, there is something more to me. But hio part ya pili sikusema. Instead niliuliza how old he is, ako
  6. Nikauliza kama the legend is true. See, legend has it that he is legendary for taking girls on a ride na hana gari. Akaniambia anipeleke Legend tukainvestigate his alleged crimes.

Now this should have been my warning sign but kuna vile his eyes were so captivating nika ‘sigh’ nikasema ‘twende’.  Nikakuwa number

  1. kwa list yake ya
  2. ‘things’ to do before I’m
  3. Here is a little insight into us-things. We are inanimate, we don’t feel. We are here to make things easier for you so use us however you will and when you are done, leave us. We. Just. Don’t. care!!! 5:
  4. akanitext
  5. reasons why we should break up and the gist of it was that I suck. And I did.
  6. times. But don’t let us be caught up in numbers when members were itching and embers of hope were snuffed out. So, thus began my love affair with pain.
  7. He sang lullabies to my sensibilities and send me lurching headfast into confidence in my inabilities. By
  8. I was dead. I was poetry.

Poetry is a woman whose palette has been seasoned by pain and bitterness and they indulged me every time I went calling. Female Casanova. Player. Or more accurately, sl…  At the break of dawn

  1. th June. I woke up to the smell of piss. I had slept on the floor of a Nganya. I realized that I’m starving and alone and started crying without caring who was on that bus searching for a glimpse of God. I was finally hit by the silhouette of a woman I had become, the daunting caricature of the woman I could have been, the Picasso of my painful past. 5:31.
  2. took me to dinner. He stared into my eyes and told me I’m beautiful. I recoiled and took back my hand afraid that if he looked closely enough he would find me. Afraid that the bare and unfiltered parts of me are too ugly for anyone to ever hold gently. Afraid and ashamed. See, shame is a dark prison –where prisoners volunteer to be caged- and he, he gave a face to my shame.

But he handled me like a folded fortune. Every word I said was a clue for a puzzle game. I was Sudoku and he had mastered me.

That night over dinner, I realized that a meal can be a eulogy in mouthfuls. That night, 30 through 17 traveled with me without even moving.

  1. rescued the reasons to love from the rubble that was my life

31. became the light in my darkness

31. the spring in my winter

31. Job 31, Proverbs 31 was my second chance.


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