Chunky

Mama's half awake,
wincing through the suckling 

Readily paying the price,
loved up with you.

Your cries fill the room 

interval after interval.

Past 4 AM, a rude awakening;
the pain is barely bearable.

Incredible

less than 24 hours on planet earth 

you're a master enchanter
turning parents to putty,
barely lifting a finger.

We who must tiptoe around

hold our breath as we handle

newly formed miniture bones

underneath the squidgyest of rolls,

folding, creasing,

receiving constant kisses.

Even your forehead is chubby.

Mama called you a little squidge.

The midwife christened you "chunky monkey"
How could I take offense

when all I saw was me.

Aunty Noora breathed her last

A few months before you drew your first

Mama loved her dearly

No surprise, the name lives on

passed down like precious jewelry.

Truthly, it wasn't my first choice
but love is give and take

and look how it grew (on me)

as all things must.

You lit up the room when you arrived

you burn brighter by the day.

live your truth; come what may

The voice, clear and straight, said "live your truth; come what may"

I knew what it meant,
'though,
more often I muzzle mine,
on occassion I rock the boat,
clear my throat, and something unfiltered falls out-

potent,
poisonous as porn,
but it was not my intent to pour scorn.

"Live your truth; come what may"
and the silver cord running through hearts, vibrates and hums.

So when drowned in thought,
I might feel the resonance, and pull back to something pure.

The distant ways of the boy.
Thinking less, simply taking steps.

Shame it fades,
obscured in the shadow.

"Live your truth; come what way"
the law of diminishing intent warns
you must strike while inspired,
the will to action wilts like old flowers.

The traitorous part of the brain
quick to bury an idea in scrutiny
scoffs at simple wisdom
"What is your truth today?"
and I had to concede my truth is as consistent as English weather,
but I smiled, at least it is not boxed in.

My heart is warmed by wisdom.
Shame it must cool and hibernate.

A creature of compulsive habits,
what is there to live for-
but the truth, underneath.

precarious

I meet him by the stream's edge,
frog by name of Soon Dead.
he fresh,
green,
soft and slime,
inclined to trust,
blunt of mind.

Greets with nod,
my violence stirs.
I coat my words to mask the urge.

I ask Soon Dead,
simply this:
"grant weary legs a humble gift;
please cross this stream,
while you drift,
may I hitch a hikers lift?"

He resists at first,
trembles,
shuffles,
grumbles he knows I bring nothing but trouble.

I bow my head,
feign offense.
My expression is coy,
I offer soon dead,
ice cool logic he cannot deny,
"think-
Why would I strike and cause both our demise?"

I see his cogs turn,
he comes round to my thinking.
I mount his back as my tic erupts,
twitching.

He enters the stream.
Ripples dance 'round our voyage.
As we glide 'cross I wonder,
my ego ponders-

Maybe I'll make it,
the other side in sight.
I can change these spots,
turn 'round my life!

But I can not deceive
my essence, I am-
slave to rage senseless,
I must bear consequences.

Soon Dead's life on a string-
His lungs and soul,
scream mighty in pain,
and make thunder take note.

A passing bird,
snapped out of it's dream,
looked down saw violent red trickle down green.
My sting buried deep-
Soon Dead's plight,
haunted the bird for the rest of it's life.

A fool betrayed,
my ambivalent mood.
You say how could I do this?

but I did not choose,
to be of this nature,
equipped with such tools.

seeded destruction
roots deep in soul
My life, my victim, bound by our roles.

I met him by the stream's edge.
The frog and I, paint the stream red.

the thin line between

Close those cupboards!
You never clean the bath.
How many times must I ask?
Have you called Waleed?
We could do with extra shelving.
Please Sort out the garden.

Undeniably my darlin,

my
wife
nags.

What's happening with your degree?
When's your next court date?
Applied for that new role yet?
don't wait till the last minute
You should holla at jamil
When last you called Ishmael,
and what about your uncle?

Snap out of your bubble!

Push:

Ive got three assignments due.
College fees this month.
On thursday it's d's birthday,
we'll send her something lovely.
Imagine living overseas?
It's in my blood to teach!

the thin line between,
My wife inspires me!

Nkrumah's remedy

Long before they dug up presidential bones
and placed them in a mausoleum.

A young Kwame Nkrumah was guest of James fort prison.

Eleven proud men shared the same bucket
equally defensive of their distinction.

Quick to make clear,
"our incarceration is political"

The path to greatness is littered with sacrifice
and so they endured the morning feed:

One cup of maize porridge, 
no sugar. 
Watered soup on Sundays,
and skin degraded daily.

In his story, Kwame wrote,

"the nut kernel was generally used by the prisoners to oil their bodies.. 

..on the account of their rotten diet and the poor quality of soap, the skin became scaled and cracked"

Making light work of the ritual 
he would split the kernel 
between strong teeth
precious oil was released

Spit, smear, repeat
great, small relief.
Spit, smear, repeat
until each crack was eased.

The years brought destiny;
oily kernels withered in memory.
The former prisoner wore linen;
his rise is legendary.

Predictably, 
soft nature grows hard;
morals bend
under weight of great power.

Nkrumah now tyrant,
voracious, cold heart.
Sniffing and stamping
descent stood no chance.
Scores of young men imprisoned, 
no trial.

My father's cousin,
guest of James Fort prison.
No kernels to extract oil,
No ointment to ease his suffering.

He remembers the tears when he paid him a visit; Nkrumah forever a villain.

I know why they scratch

Just one,
of many

of the small
cruel tricks.

One from the mix that life inflicts

Is the never ending itch that afflicts hexed skin
bane from birth
wicked as a scorned bitch.

the beginning is small
     a subtle nag
triggered by the thing you ate
     the trans fat thickens your saliva
coating the inside of your mouth like wretched feathers
     (baptised when crude oil spills)

devilish treats cause mischief
     but impossible to resist is junk
scoffed without presence of mind to consider
     Irony that a doughnut has caused the tingle
rising in urgency

you try to ignore, but the effort in vain
     the will is weak
itch must be obeyed

     it builds upon itself
until it cannot be endured,

weak, you relent.

     Raking the surface
slave to the itching,
     possessed
you scratch to quell the irretation
     calm is realeased
the briefest of breezes
     a taste of peace
the cruelest of teases

gone in a flash
     joy is a blip
comes next is not cool
     burns hot
lit wick.

conclusion is written in code
     etched on lines
a pronounced ebb
     that promises scabs

again, and again..

Just one
Of many

Of the small
cruel tricks

one from the mix that life inflicts.

Bloodhound

Did he see at that moment

how he resembled the vulture?

Surely it occurred he might look the lesser creature?

Back, forth , forth, back; how many times?

Did it cross his mind?

Was he blind to the crime?

He reminisced, 

the rush when he beheld his gift;

the smell of good grief,

the lens flashed sharp teeth.

The child was a feast;

the prize within reach.

A leach can only leach;

each play their part.

He gulped, 

and passed the cup back to the reaper.

He was cut from the cloth of the dealers;
doomed to get high 

on his own supply;
overdose on pity,

fall into his abyss.

Snap

He beat his chest,

"Mine was no easy pursuit.

Who dares judge me? 

who dares wear these boots?"

Guilt may be folded - compartmentalised.

But demons don't die,

they grow fat in the dark.

The bloody lens:

*drip*
*snap*

The child was a feast:

*drip*
*snap*

Bait for the trap; catalyst for the fall.
After grabbing slippery pictures,

1 glance, 2 glance , 3 glance, 4..

how many more, 

as he left her?

Who can survive the perfect storm

when it pours acclaim?

His belly full of rotten fruit,

it burst from the disdain.

They always applaud,

before pouring scorn.

Most still pepper him with stones.

Who mourns for the child?

the life and times of kevin carter