lilongwe writers circle

Swinging by Kate Wolf

2010-05-07T08:35:00.001+02:00

Swinging: Should I stay or should I go?

I never thought I’d be here in forever. In fact, I wasn’t even sure I’d be here as long as I’ve been. My arrival was a conflict of acute appreciation of calm with tremendous trepidation about the depth of the quiet. Now, the wonderment of newness has been left far behind as I examine the space around me.

In moment of unadulterated blue sky, I can’t imagine being anywhere else. The distance stretches out forever in front of me and I want to soak in the equatorial sun, dreaming away anything that doesn’t exist directly before my eyes. There are hours and days when the lake looks sea-greener than the Caribbean and the fish eagles are overhead and the peace settles into my bones. The trance becomes complete and I reverberate in the here and now, refusing to vibrate farther than where I sit.

The complete same and exact opposite occurs in other moments, the ones where results are had and all is right with the world. Moments when development is on track to succeed, the farthest reaches of the bush are reached and the smallest child cared for. Moments of spark and sparkle and shine.

But the shine never lasts and when I’m sitting in traffic, swearing at the leisurely driver in front of me, begrudging the exhaust hovering before my face, the futility sets in. The achievements never last and there is always something left undone. Staff untrained, stuff gone missing, strife among partners. It’s hard to believe we ever get anywhere when each meeting is an exercise in extreme déjà vu and all the wheels spin constantly without ever touching the ground.

Would it really be any different anywhere else? Shiny Zambia with shopping malls and movies, cool Mozambique with endless beaches and bottomless prawns, efficient Rwanda with a Ministry that gets up and goes. But would a quick look under the hood deprive me of daydreams? Would my clear crisp sky come with?

I sit swinging, scouring, strategizing, speculating. Wondering, wishing, waiting, vacillating. I gaze up at that blue blue sky and wish upon the weather. I wish the clarity of the endless sky were reflected in my thoughts and that the hazy definition of the horizon didn’t seem so far away. I wish it weren’t too much to ask to have all things beloved in one location. I wish bringing in the new weren’t always a condemnation of the old.

I sit swinging.

Rats in the Race by Qodebreaker

2010-05-06T14:50:00.002+02:00

Maybe this is a rant, maybe I am just tired of running and running. They said I should excel in primary school so that I go to secondary school and then I get to college. They said I should finish college so I get a job.

I got a bachelors degree, then got a professional certification and a Masters on top. They also said I should get married and have many kids preferably a girl and a boy. Now they say I should buy or build a house, have a great car preferably a Mercedes. My house should have furniture from Nasr Egyptian furniture, an HD flat screen TV, HD PVR from Multichoice fully paid up to watch all the mind numbing offerings it has like how people committed murder on Crime and Investigation Network or Forbes 25 most richest under 30s, watch people humiliate themselves on Idols and be a peeping tom while watching Big Brother.

Now they say I should get an international job, move my family to a strange land where we will be isolated but hooray for the international school education my children will get and the dollars I will accumulate besides the prestige of being “outside”.

It’s the many things they never taught me in school and the many things these people don’t say that matter. The questions we do not ask

“Why should I become wealthy?”

“What is most important in my life?”

“What am I willing to do, to give up, to give for the dreams that I have?”

“Whose dreams am I pursuing?”

“Whose person am I becoming?”

“What is wealth?”

“What is success?”

“What is happiness?”

There is no time to sit back and think on these things. The bandwagon is moving fast. You cant stand in the middle of the road or you will get run over. So we just give up on reflection and just go with the masses, stuck between strangers and familiars all after the fable of the cheese at the end of the road.

Sometimes one raises their head and sees other rats on the side, not running nibbling on seemingly smaller and not as succulent cheese and the gnawing suspicion that maybe they already have arrived and we are pursuing an illusion.

Today is what I have for sure, I'll meet tomorrow and its cares after I sleep tonight.

As We Swing by Andrew K

2010-05-06T08:37:00.001+02:00

Deep into my inner provocative mind boggling mind circles
Enclosed into my small dark imaginative vacuums
Then a flash hits my mind
As the smell of violets and petals flood the space
As natures transformations are in unison and harmony with our deepest beings
And the sun speaks of our best cherished lovely times
As we swing high to see how far our love overlooks the farthest ends
Characterising the moment of love which is worth a million of solitude ones
Yet all is but in a dream
As we swing, swinging real high in love

Your starlight eyes reflect the rhythm of beauty and sparkle of nature
With the sunny, shiny face externalizing the warmth and light in you
Yours is but a package that generates waves of comfort, hope, nourishment
For you flow a river of peace, faith, love across my heart
With a longer litany of beauty you are described
Perhaps you were born of the stars, the real epitome of beauty
Like a dove in the archways you are
Keeping faith within your heart to see the burning light of beauty upon the horizon
Reflecting the crispy gold
As we move up, visualising the fantasies that feed our desires.
For it’s through this motion that ideas, art is expressed
Oh Yes!
As we swing, swinging in the motion of Love

Tomato Attack by Acacia

2010-05-06T08:31:00.002+02:00

Tomatoes. The frozen kind. Red hard cricket balls, expertly bowled towards me… as I carefully protect my wicket, dive desperately around the goal posts, keep my gloves up – swinging, guarding my face.

It was a nightmare. I’m not sure when I got scared of tomatoes (or when I started using sports imagery)... Did one bash me on the forehead, or was it more of a slow bombardment? Either way the tomatoes were terrifying. If one hit me; it might crack open a gaping weakness, burst into a horrible truth, the world might end or - god forbid - make me a bit uncomfortable.

To be called ‘emotional’ is an insult, your judgement is in question. ‘Feelings’ are female, inferior, weak, and not cool. So I dodged the emotional tomatoes; I dodged hard and I ducked fast. I developed ridiculous reflexes and a rubber spine. Yep, the barrage of cherry bullets whizzed past harmlessly, miles off target.

I learnt to evade emotions from some pretty good dodgers, escapologists of note. Keep manically busy. Watch mindless TV. Read trashy novels. Attend nights of prayer. Cook and clean obsessively. Work past 5. Party hard. Change the subject. Gossip about melodrama. Etc.
I even bought in extreme measures. Avoid the feeling by; researching it, write a report on it, talk about it. Elude any sensation by; taking a photo of it, blog post it, give it a scientific name.

Such surreal-ness couldn’t last forever and I was woken up by a big sloppy tomato smacking me in the face. I felt it. Juices dribbling down, wet and pungent. Another one hit me on the arm, a bright explosion of vitality, a burst of meaning. I bared my chest happily for the approaching bombshell.

Acacia > http://acacia265.blogspot.com

Time and Motion by Nicky Ndovi

2010-05-06T08:29:00.000+02:00

My earliest memories……

The sun shimmers on my skin, my hair blows lazily in the summer breeze. I lurk at the bottom of the garden; my fingernails and knuckles pitted with the dark earth, as I lazily dig for and examine earthworms, and other interesting things that await discovery. My mother is engaged in similar tasks close by, pulling weeds and other intruders from her vegetable patch. I listen to her humming, and watch her throwing the undesirable snails over the garden wall. As I survey my small world, breathing in the scents of apple blossom and warm earth, I feel peace, my mind is conscious of the stillness and tranquility of this time.

My eyes lift up, ears alerted by the sound of the colliery siren. In the distance I see the green of the valley walls rippling and undulating, a patch of black shows me the location of my father, he will already be on the move, the siren has told me that his working day has finished and rings in the new shift of men who will make their way underground, their cage swaying as it lowers them deep underground.

My mother catches me unawares, “come on cariad your father will be home soon”, she says, swooping me up over to sit on the gatepost and await my father’s return. I kick my heels up examining the fresh scabs on my knees; I look up at the lace of the tree branches above me, the leaves moving in the breeze…….

That morning I was a tree, from a small seedling curled up tight on the floor I developed rapidly into a giant oak swaying in the storm. My teacher’s voice had lilted and flowed as she whipped her small charges into red faced leafy and animal dervishes that shrieked and whirled and span about the gymnasium.

I tell my mother about my short incarnation as a tree and how together with my friends we had managed to grow into a small forest which harbored animals and untold mysteries.

My mother laughs, “What will you be when you grow up?” she asks. I think hard…..my imagination fast forwards, the future seems distant, hanging slightly out of sight, but crystallizing into concrete images when I call for them

I seem I answer that I will be a writer a vet and a nurse. My mother laughs, “Just be yourself she answers”…..

A moment of silence and calm, as I remember my earliest childhood events, it always seems curious how time seems to expand and contract, to be suspended and yet still in motion.

To My Wife by Kada Phiri

2010-05-06T08:28:00.000+02:00

The celebrations are over and all have departed to their home,
They dances, drank and ate till they left empty domes,
The journey of our lives has begun,
The union of our families extends to our clans
I waited with baited breath for the day you became my bride,
You are now a woman, who is my pride,
It’s going to be a long and hard ride,
I am with you the whole way even when you get tired,
Our ancestors have been through the same path,
Their words will guide us in time of wrath,
Our hose is now a home for our new union,
It is a ship sailing on Lake Malawi with a captain,
We are going to grow bigger as a family with children,
The future of our bloodlines lies with these beacons.

Moon Swings by Cherry Nicely

2010-05-06T08:25:00.001+02:00

Don’t.
Talk to me.
You irritate me
Your voice, your smile, your patronizing understanding…
Don’t touch me
Actually you disgust me
There I said it
And you bore me
You look a bit wounded…
I’m sor…
Stop talking!
Your smug platitudes don’t soothe me
I don’t need soothing
I hate you. All of you
I want to hurt small children
Smack them
Twist Chinese burns on their little arms
Push them down the stairs
I am RAGE
Hurricane Rage
In pain
Annihilating every human thing in my path

I’m sorry
I’m so so sorry
I’m a horrible person
I didn’t mean to hurt you
I love you
I do
I don’t know what to do
I such
I do
I hurt people
I break things
I am evil
I’m so sorry… so sorry..
I… I…
Honey… please run to Metro – I need a tampon

Hi, hey you!
Isn’t this song fantastic!
Can you feel the bass line… don’t you just love that hook!
Wow look at that sky
Is it azure or just blue? Almost turquoise really…
Can you feel that sun warming vitamin C in my face
How amazing is that!
God is awesome
You think I’m awesome?!
Thanks
You think I’m pretty stunning… and strong
And smart, sexy, sensitive, special…
Aww… thanks
I love you too baby

Elpin’s Embrace by Cherry Nicely

2010-03-11T15:29:00.001+02:00

You were dancing, waiting for this to be over
Sitting in class for another hour
Butterfly wings graze finger tips
The first time we kissed I came alive without thought
A moment of stillness
Tickling
Wordlessly against my ribs

Paved with Gold by NN

2010-03-11T15:27:00.003+02:00

The Streets are Paved with Gold

My eyes see a flash of gold. In my mind I equate this glistening color with wealth, although in truth money, cash, ndalama, comes in many colours, shapes and sizes. Money, money, money!

Coins are pressed into my palms, some cold and hard and shiny, others warm and worn. Notes can be crisp and new or else crumpled and dirty, the lingering fragrance of the hands, pockets and wallets of the many different people that they have temporarily belonged to remaining like a scented legacy.

Some people want money for its own sake: It lies in bags and banks doing nothing, helping no-one. Others desire material goods, shiny ntchende benz and mansions. It’s funny how all white people have money, their shoprite bags bursting at the seams! Other people don’t have enough. Money changes hands, changes lives, changes worlds. I want it to change my world! I have never aspired to be wealthy. All I want to do is to do more than simply exist.

To fulfill this hope I pace the streets, the roads in my ragged clothes, my bare feet calloused and sore, my eyes wide I beg, “bwana I am hungry please help”.

At night I think of those that hurl abuse at me or kindly counsel me. Their words are always the same; “you have no future unless you go to school” they say. How can they be so cruel? I desire more than this futile existence. All that I hope for is to become rich enough to finish my secondary school.

My ears explode with a roaring noise, a smashing noise, my body feels the impact, twisted golden metal and the silver of broken glass. How did my hopes come to this? These streets are not full of gold but of broken hopes.

... Less (Hope) by Tendy K

2010-03-11T09:59:00.002+02:00

My glass is half empty,
My insecurities are quite full;
Overflowing the brim,
I can feel the pressure of an overdose.

My confidence is bipolar,
It cannot decide whether we are up or down.
Swings in all sorts of directions,
It sees things that cannot be heard.

My pride walked out on me;
Two days ago.
It said it needs someone stronger,
It hated feeling defeated.
This selfless attachment thing was nonsense.

Yesterday, I met misery,
He embraced me,
He was so calm, very calm,
Showed me my wrongs,
Displayed my righteous flaws
He told me it was okay,
It was fine to have self pity,
To be with him for days on end,
He made me wear shame,
Said it was beautiful, my shroud.
He was my joy,
Took my under till I drowned,
In moments of fear I was not alone,
He was my armor,
A truth I understood, he would not leave me.

But today he left,
He sailed off in my tears.

Solitude,
I have come this far,
With you, my crossroads reached,
Numb, I crawl, I stand, and I cower
Stagger towards you, the center,
But there is only one road left,
One road to follow? Is that all?
Like an allure it calls,
Where are the other roads?
Am I to go? Where I am to go?

Lonesome,
Yes I am,
Softly, softly, I close my eyes,
It’s a beautiful dark.

Tendy K, 23rd February 2010

The Ideal Week by Acacia

2010-03-11T09:30:00.002+02:00

A crazy civil servant called for litter-bins in minibuses, if only clean streets were that easy. It was Monday morning; Acacia drank her coffee, listened to the radio and smirked at such naivety.

Admittedly, she had had a few crazy ideas of her own. There was a photo of a smiling younger woman holding a banner, protesting outside the houses of parliament in London. MPs were beseeched to act for one cause or another. Meaningful posters adorned the students’ kitchen. Prayers were said for soldiers in Iraq. Fair trade products were aggressively promoted. Even Wetherspoons had received an indignant letter with her signature.

Fortunately those fanciful days were over. Acacia sucked the last sip of the dregs and set off for her meeting, she would arrive exactly twenty minutes late to avoid waiting for latecomers.

A girlfriend called an emergency lunch on Tuesday; should she move in with her boyfriend, after all this time was he ever going to put a ring on it? The soup took quite a while to arrive, but they were used to that.

Wednesday was martyrs day, Acacia didn’t know much about Chilembwe. Dying for your principles seemed rather old-fashioned. She savoured the the lovely, luxurious time alone. Many old friends had left town and there wasn’t much point in making new ones just so they could leave as well. But she was content, she could happily keep the same job, live in the same house, and wear the same hairstyle for the rest of her days.

The boss called on Thursday, demanding to know why the grass wasn’t short. he raised his voice; Acacia rolled her eyes, which part of rainy season did he not understand? Why did these people bother?

Friday was pretty slow, Acacia just wasn’t in the mood. George emailed through his new project concept; vague objectives, blood donations – nothing new there. She couldn’t be bothered to type up her feedback (did starry-eyed do-gooders ever listen?). On skype-type Mr. K recalled how he had expressed his dissatisfaction to road traffic for issuing his license late (what on earth had he expected?). A face book friend asked her to sign a petition for computers in the national library (Manuel was such a dreamer).

With an invisible pat on the back, Acacia applauded her own pragmatism. Was there anyone else so realistic, so in touch with the challenges on the ground, so in tune with the cultural obstacles, so adept at predicting pitfalls and problems? Yet so flexible, so ready to find new ways to adapt and cope, endure and survive?!

Finally 4:30 came, she picked up both her phones (sometimes one network went down) and drove to the filling station (you never knew when there might be a national shortage). At the ATM, Acacia got enough cash to cover a police bribe in case she was stopped on her night out. She took her new route home, slightly longer but it avoided that dirt road with potholes. Someone chucked a crisp packet out of the window of the car in front.

Saturday brought no lights, no kettle, no electricity. According to the gardener, they were the only plot affected. Acacia set up camp in Capital Hotel, with weekend newspapers and ready cups of tea… while super-neighbour Nicola mercilessly harassed ESCOM faults.

The press detailed how a Malawian passport holder was accused of not being Malawian. In court another accused was denied bail to protect him from mob justice. Even Acacia could see the irony in a system that had no faith in itself… Yet more debate around the quota system; in the quest for the best stopgap solution, what happened to the bigger picture?!

Acacia got a good seat in church on Sunday, and put her handbag on the floor in front of her (where she could keep an eye on it). The pastor spoke solemnly about how a guy from the church had lost his way and got in trouble, he urged us all to pray for the poor chap. Acacia couldn’t understand why the pastor was so sad, he almost seemed crushed… surely this was not a surprise, the signs had been there all along.

What was a surprise, was that Acacia found herself jealous. She was jealous of the pastor’s strong emotions, his deep disappointment. When was the last time she had been gutted, or ecstatic? Being a smug know-it-all wasn’t that great really, oh very safe, but rather dull.

They were everywhere - these idealists, who didn’t accept life as it was but wondered how the world might be. They carried their ridiculous dreams, under a rising sun of possibilities. When they cried, they probably cried more than her; but when they laughed she knew they laughed harder.

At Joe’s pub that afternoon, Mtendy mentioned that in Nigeria once a week at a certain time everyone stops work, comes out of their offices and houses and picks up rubbish for an hour. This is enforced by the police and Lagos grinds to a halt, for the sake of clean streets.

Would that work in Malawi? Somewhere along the path she had lost hope. She hoped for nothing, she hoped in noone. She missed it.

NB: For a change, everything in this article is somehow true, except that George’s proposal was quite cool, and I don’t actually keep my tank full. Manuel’s petition was eventually successful. Watch this space for part 2: in which Acacia finds her way back to hope.

The Song by Cherry Nicely

2010-03-11T08:50:00.000+02:00

Once upon a time there was a land of joy ruled by a wise king where love grew on trees and yielded generous fruit everyday such that the people were always happy and singing. One of the rulers of a neighboring kingdom was a vain, selfish and jealous man. Though they didn’t complain in his hearing, the king knew his subjects secretly envied their happy neighbors. His secret police told him some were inter-marrying and others processing visas to emigrate to that land.

Instead of yearning to serve and please his people, the king’s vanity needed succor and his jealousy howled for vindictive satisfaction. The selfish ruler decided he would conquer that land of happiness; claim the people for his slaves and pillage the wealth of the land for his empire.

The greedy sovereign killed his good neighbor, razed the trees and enslaved the happy people. He drove them south into his lands to work as slaves for his people. The evil king made sure their lives were hard and the work was ceaseless.

Yet every day, the happy people woke with a smile and a song. Though their wise king was dead, their homes besieged and they were enslaved, they just kept on singing. They sang about the smile of the moon and the winking stars, of lovers and sweet water in brooks.

Bewildered by their music, the king could not understand why they sang at all and commanded the slave masters to whip them all the more. Still the people sang. They sang about the song of the whip and the cow that walked with a stripe missing from its hide, those good people they sang about everything!

Finally the king could stand it no more and summoned the people to his new palace built of marble and precious stones from their land. He asked them why they sang and the people of joy answered, ‘we sing because we are’. The king could not understand what they meant because they were slaves with no country and no wealth. To hide his ignorance and appease his ego, he ordered them to sing songs about him but they just smiled and that was all they would say.

Infuriated, the king ordered them flogged and immediately banned music on radio, TV, the internet and any public places in that country but still the music went on. Their songs were so infectious, his own citizens begun to sing along with the people from the stolen country. Together they sang about friendship and family. They sang of rainbows and dreams. When the rhythms were irresistible they also danced together.

The kingdom became a musical place where a melody was a greeting and bread could be bought for a song. The unmusical king was driven to distraction and madness by the songs. He could no longer attend to matters of state; he stopped eating and he could not sleep. His infamous libido waned and the many twelve year old virgins placed in his bed did not arouse his interest.

Finally his favourite wife and ministers moved him to his farthest palace. They soundproofed every room, but he could still hear the music. It went on and on and on…

The king raved till he lost the power of speech and became incontinent. Two by two, his loyal acolytes began to abandon him to his insanity. His desperate wife called distinguished health experts but even the charms of international witchdoctors failed to revive him, and the people kept singing. And singing even more.

Slowly the seedlings of love began to take root there. One night the moon rose to coin the sky with silver, liberating the stars from the dark night. All the people woke to sing praises to the moon. In the far away palace, the insane king drowned in a puddle of his own diarrhea while his remaining attendants were out on the balconies singing and dancing to the moon.

‘All hail the new moon…all the hail the moon’

Our time has been brief by Limbika

2010-03-11T08:01:00.002+02:00

Our time has been brief, but it cannot be over

Even though our time has been brief, you have moved me.
There is an undeniable connection between us, one that few can ever hope to find.
A platonic friendship, with ambitions.
Sexual tension, without sex.
We can share a moment, an experience, a bed,
Without any discomfort and without sex.
We share hopes, the same ones.
Hopes that one of us will send a strong enough signal.
A sign either way; you do want me to kiss you; you don't want me to kiss you.
An uncertainty hangs in the air between us.
We are uneasy and yet easy.
Our friendship is enough, but is there more?
Finally curiosity takes over.
The kiss is so full of passion, of wanting, of needing.
Friendship is no longer enough, and it needn't be.
One kiss confirms all our wondering and ends the uncertainty.
Hours later, our bodies still catching up with our minds, and our minds with our bodies, we lie together.
Both wondering at our hesitations and talking as we always have.
Now with the same ease as always, but, somehow, with more than ever.
Our time has been brief, but it cannot be over.

Limbika 25/2/10

Godslayer by Qodebreaker

2010-03-11T08:00:00.001+02:00

My name could be God-slayer. I have slain God twice, figuratively. If it was literally I would have to find Him first and produce his mortal remains.

I have renounced his existence twice in my life. I looked into the heavens and declared him non-existent or impotent and dared him to show up to prove me wrong. And apprehensively I waited for a dark cloud tinged with angry purple lightening serpents. I checked the ground beneath lest I miss the suddenly yawning earth about to swallow up my foolish self.

Nothing of a sort happened. Time went on as it had always had. Kind of makes you wonder what could drive someone to this point. Well the first time had to do with hell. Was it the movie Jennifer’s body that said “Hell is a teenager?”

In 1998 I was 19 years old. My teenage hormones had raged battle with my sanity for years. This was the last battle. My hormones had fancied a cute thing since 1993 or so. I thought she was created just for me, my soul-mate and such other fantasies. And I could not gather courage to talk to her and tell her just how I felt.

Years passed, till she made the first move. I had not known that we had similar demons haunting us. Slaves of chemical imbalances disguised as emotional and spiritual expressions. I felt like the dark clouds had been rent asunder by a mighty sword and the Fates were smiling on me. But life is like a game of Die. Sometimes it rolls in your favour and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the die is loaded.

We could not be together, I was the UT, the Unknown Troglodyte who fancied a princess of sorts. The ostracism was immediate and harsh and I began to dig the ground with bare hands till I hit rock bottom then I dug some more.

I walked in that state for some months. And walked out of it the same way I walked out the second time.

The second bottom which occurred in 2007, came out of battles with depression over many unanswered conundrums. Why the sicknesses, why the struggles with sin? Why hell? Why wars? Can I believe a book written by a spectra of learned and ignorant men? So I took a dagger and slew him again.

Then went out to find more logical paths. That is why I bought Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion. I hungrily drank page by page. How did I feel? After years of faith and hope?

In some ways I felt like British writer John Osborne who is quoted to have a badge which reads “Since I gave up hope, I feel so much better”. No Hope equalled no expectations and no internal pressure to see life conform to some datum and thus no frustration and no depression. But I began to see glimpses. Glimpses that coalesced into a person by the end of the book.

“Are you satisfied now that I do not exist and I m impotent?” he asked, his eyes were neither gentle nor harsh just inquisitive.

I reached out slowly, gingerly to him and he didn’t budge. He just stood there looking at me.

“Why did you never manifest majestically, why didn’t you try to prove to me about yourself?” It slipped my lips before I really thought about it. I gulped. He laughed and sat down on the ground. I felt awkward. So I sat down too.

“I didn’t have to and to answer your next question. I don’t hate you, and I am not here to punish you. We are reasoning together aren’t we? Come I want to show you something” He got up and began to walk.

I followed and asked. “What do you want to show me?”

“I want to show you hope”.

Round by Otumidwa

2010-01-28T16:15:00.007+02:00

Life today is like looking at a carousel
up goes one little horse, down comes another,
nausea still lingering on from the first trimester
as I focus on the motion
of generations past, present and future
in turn experiencing the mystery
of two people sharing one body

Pregnant I am round
and feel like Botero's mama ain't got nothing on me
visions of mobiles and merry-go-rounds crowding up my mind
when I am not too busy worrying about
just how much pain relief I can get and
"can you wake me up when it's all clean and proper please?"

Caught unaware but definitely red-handed
I am gathering up the courage to step onto the scary carousel myself
odds are I'll get off alive
and hopefully a little less round

Round by KW

2010-01-28T12:06:00.003+02:00

It’s a dance, what we do, that takes us round and round in circles. Sometimes your left foot moves back and my right forward together in time with the rhythm. Other times, we each stamp out the beat of our own melodies which swirl rapidly in concentric circles that often bump headlong into one another before vibrating off to opposite ends.

It’s a crowded dance floor, where we are, but I can always feel your pulse through the other paces wrapping around me in time with the music. We coil, we curl, we curve around the hurdles strewn haphazardly throughout, never forgetting the sound reverberating through our skin.

We weave loose trails like twisting ribbon around what wavers between us; we come round again to the vibration between us, to what tingles our insides coming up through the floor boards. We slide and bump until we are one, rumbling along in unison with the earth beneath us.

We wrap around one another endless and thoughtlessly and thoughtfully, the cadence of our movements becoming a predictable pattern, ratcheting out the rhythm of us, overtaking whomever is between us and knowing that our beat comes first above all else. We stomp out the beat of us.

Me, Myself and Us by Acacia

2010-01-28T11:54:00.008+02:00

If we’re ever talking… and some guy reaches for my leg… and eyes glaze over, I stop mid-sentence… shoot me! Remember the last time you were the third wheel. Were they fondling and fawning, and playing with each others hair? Did they touch cheeks, stroke arms and distract each other from the conversation? A bit inconsiderate, a tad antisocial?

In Malawi we see public displays of affection all the time… in the club… by intoxicated prostitutes… picking up inebriated punters. That’s about it. We don’t see men and women holding hands. We never spot a loving touch in the supermarket. We do not get smoothing of backs in church (well not in mine). Husbands aren’t caught greeting wives with a peck. Over here we only see teenagers flirting with ice cream, a couple on a date act like any two friends, and the bride and groom sit 30 cm apart all day.

This total taboo on any public evidence of emotion goes even further than the realm of romance. When a policeman stops her car, my wonderfully expressive mother is liable to raise her voice or burst into tears. Onlookers stare in fascination, sometimes they laugh, and often the poor officer has no idea how to react. While far from repressive, people in Malawi do seem to discourage the INDIVIDUAL expression of emotion. Mother is a brave exception in an otherwise ‘peaceful nation’ where the only angry shouts, or distressed cries, come from the mad and the drunk.

Before you imagine passive, blank faces, look a little closer… there’s plenty of passion to be found. Try visiting Shoprite when the Flames have won at Kamuzu Stadium, or watch a mob catch a thief, go to a funeral, attend weddings… COLLECTIVE exuberance is easily observed.

This is consistent with a culture that values solidarity, getting along with each other, fitting in, and being the same. Other cultures are more individualistic, glorifying personal autonomy. It seems you cannot have your cake and eat it. Would you rather have great community cohesion or full individual expression?

Shall we make everyone feel included and equal, or shall I do what I want when I want? One person expressing extreme feelings stands out from the crowd. The couple necking in the bar separates themselves from the pack. In France, 2000 women wearing a cloth over their heads in public is considered a barrier to social integration. In Malawi, anything that stands out is a threat to a united community, and is not taught to our children. The tallest reed is cut down.

When emotions never see the light of day, it raises a few concerns… Sons don’t have a clue what their father thinks of them. Husbands don’t learn how to show love to their wives. Employees vent their frustration through a go-slow. There’s a massive gap between what is said and what is thought. Simple actions are loaded with coded messages. Effective communication becomes a distant dream. Sound familiar?

Don’t forget the advantages... no one storms out of the boardroom, no accusations are made in the heat of the moment, conflicts are never explosive. When careless anger is never verbalised, reconciliation becomes so much easier. Immediate reactions are stifled, for a later quiet word. Mediators are in their element; third-party advisors ever ready to bring about compromise and resolution. Hmm imagine a country without war, we don’t have to look far.

Just as wearing a burka makes you a great Muslim, that arm-around-shoulder makes you a great couple… but when it turns to kisses and cuddles, then it also makes you shit drinking buddies, awful dinner guests, and just not fun to be around. Inside I might be shouting ‘get a room’, but I’ll never tell you that because… drum roll… I don’t get overcome by the need to express every impulse, especially when it might make you uncomfortable.

Memories from the Shadows by AK

2010-01-28T11:52:00.000+02:00

Listening to the glittering hymns from the birds
Across the captivating blue sight
Welcoming the yawning waves and bubbles
Like a twinkling light in the morning sand it mirrors and flickers afar,
Too far to appreciate the aftermath of climatic change
Stumbles, rumbles, mumbles roll round aloud, too loud to hear
All is but in the reflection and meditation of humanity

With intense happiness we smiled at your oration
Your move and word on development was superb
Setbacks were a thing of the past
Thus we heaped praises at you
But alas,
Six rains in your reign have not passes
Turbulent hailstorms have been gushed
The shadows from the past have started haunting you
For your paranoia and nakedness have been exposed
Lest you lose support and viable platform
For its through such platforms that we deeply reflect and perfect
Going round the circles of lost promises, memories and indeed flattery oration

Reminiscence of those moments are still fresh
Flashes of the shady blue are still clear
When we slowly but surely gathered by the fire place
Clinging to the smouldering charcoal
Digesting the dish of culture, wisdom, life and art
Separating the finely chewed from the well regurgitated
Ooh Yes!
It’s through such circles of critic and exposure that we learn the secrets of art in its entirety
Realising our inner potential and success

- Andrew Kamwambi

Round by Ntawira

2010-01-28T11:47:00.000+02:00

I can see the world flashing before my eyes, but really it’s only a blur, a multi-coloured blur. There are what appears to be thousands of bright lights flashing and dancing. Although, I am not too sure that the lights are everywhere. Is it just that I am that disorientated to the point that I think they are?

I am holding on for dear life, but I think I’m losing my grip as my hands get sweatier and sweatier. They are one of the only things I can see that are in focus, and my knuckles are white. Probably matching my face, that can only be showing absolute fear. I can feel my stomach churning, and the feeling is getting worse.

How will I manage to keep holding on?!

I can hear loud music playing. Close to me, and far away, I can hear people screaming. I am concentrating on keeping my own mouth from screaming, but my throat is sore, am I hearing my own screams? Knowing the fear I can feel in my heart it is possible. It is starting to deafen me and disorientate me further.

When will all this noise stop?!

The world is spinning too fast now, and I’m getting even dizzier. It feels like the spinning is getting faster still, and my fingers feel like they are only just gripping with the tips now. I try to rearrange my handhold, one hand at a time, and my sweaty fingers slip over the once cold metal, that is now quite hot to the touch from where my hands have been clinging on tightly.

Why did I come here?

There is a myriad of different smells circling me, all mixing with each other, so that I cannot distinguish one from another. The result is rather unpleasant and is causing my already upset and churning stomach to churn further. The sick feeling is rising in my chest and I have to close my eyes, only making the sense of losing my balance worse. I have to open them again and face the flashing, spinning, blurry world.

Then the music slows, and at the same time, the spinning slows. My fear slowly starts to subside. The screaming near me stops almost immediately, my own included, although those screams that are further away continue still. My hands ease their grip, although my stomach is still churning. My world starts to come back into focus. The smells are still mingled and the sick feeling is still rising. It has gone too far, and I cannot hold back now.

I am sick as I start to pass out, falling sideways off the merry-go-round. Mother runs to me and scoops me up in her soft arms as I come around, muttering something about children and too much excitement, and sweets, and sugary candy floss. I snuggle into her homely arms, feeling them all around me. I feel safe again and fall asleep as she tells father to bring the car around to meet us. She says that it is now time to leave the fair.

Round the Blue by Qodebreaker

2010-01-28T11:11:00.005+02:00

I don’t know how long I had been standing there staring into the distance. I had heard that they could be unpredictable sometimes. It must have been hours since I threw the letter written with my own blood into the bottomless pit at the bottom of Kamuleka Falls.

I needed one of them to show up, so they could stop the world. Then I would get off.

Where would I go? I don’t know. I was just hoping they would rip the fabric of time and hurl me into some alternate universe. Where I could be a blue mango and get eaten by a hungry double headed Mokocha Giraffe. Or maybe I would be one breast of a Muse in some mythical Greek city.

Snap! As if any of that was going to happen. I had often considered whether it was worth it to go on. Visions of a new rope strangling my neck as i gasped for breath, legs kicking out and chunks of faecal matter flying about, scrawny fingers clawing at the rope. Heck no! That wasn’t going to be how I d exit. That would make me one ugly cadaver.

What about 3 packets of termic? The rat race sucks, how best to quit it than to take rat poison? But I had heard stories of people who took it and didn’t die but some of their intestines were cut into bloody offal pieces. Scrap that.

Rustling leaves, there they were, the spectators. Hollow, haughty and hungry eyes all waiting to witness my death. I could feel the palpable blood lust in the grins of some of them. I could hear the swan song of the hidden blades.

“Friend we understand your pain. How can we help you?”

“You are so messed up, I have never understood you. I think you complicate life for yourself”

“Kodi iwe umatani?”

Heck, half the time I didn’t understand why I was blue myself. Just one word, just one thought, just some circumstances and it was like my feet had been glued to a skateboard, placed on an oil smeared smooth incline. Twas one downhill fall from that moment on. Hitting boulders, trees didn’t seem to slow me down any.

I’d get to the bottom of the hill, battered, bruised and bleeding. Then it would start all over again. God in those times I hated my life. This cycle of highs and lows, Death often seemed to be a better way out.

As if! Maybe I m arrogant, maybe I am ignorant. Maybe I just understand that some cycles run for years like weather patterns but sometimes even the climate changes and the cycles are broken. The unbroken ring, the eternal roundness assumes a new shape, life begets a new meaning.

So instead of waiting for the gods to show up from the bottomless pit, I jumped in heart first.

POWER by Otumidwa

2009-12-03T09:28:00.002+02:00

An Ode to my Husband
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.

Mtima Tradeoffs by Acacia

2009-12-03T09:25:00.000+02:00

Mr. Mtima lived in a world of milk and honey and complete self-knowledge. In his world, everyone knew what they wanted and placed exactly the right amount of value on getting it. For example, he wanted a promotion, and day after day he jumped through hoops for his boss. He wanted a cup of tea but wasn’t prepared to leave his comfortable chair… Oh yes, Mr. Mtima made excellent ethical decisions all the time, there were no grey areas.

Unfortunately this made movies a little dull; he knew exactly how many people should die to save George Clooney’s life. He knew exactly how many people should be locked up to protect America’s freedom. And he knew exactly when the actors reached the tradeoff point that made it not worth it… when the price was too high to pay… when the ends stopped justifying the means.

You see Mr. Mtima valued his inner peace, more highly than anything else... and it had to be protected against looters. Oh yes, he had a built-in burglar alarm; it shrieked when his neighbour made kachasu out of ARVs, it screamed when his employer dodged MRA, it moaned when his worker sold fuel on the black-market and it wailed when his cousin bribed the police. These dodgy deals would certainly have stolen Mr. Mtima’s deep contentment, and he knew it wasn’t worth the tradeoff.

The programme officer at the next desk was so beautiful it took his breath away, her body called to him… she was innocent yet cunning, naïve but sensual. Mr. Mtima’s imagination quaked in desire, oh for an embrace. When she walked past he would sigh involuntarily, then smile, then look away, as his brain screamed expletives at his cowardice.

Mr. Mtima suspected that his precious peace contained his whole essence; he threw himself into feeding it, nurturing it. For him that meant a little bit of art, and lots of time with people he loved. He got thrills from talking to his two fascinating daughters, occasionally enjoyed the vicissitudes of football (arsenal), and often enjoyed extreme intimacy with his wife (that’s enough about that!). His pleasures were simple but ultimately satisfying.

The aforementioned police-bribing cousin was dear to his heart, but Mr. Mtima could not understand her… why she gambled her self-esteem on one little man, why she threw away her sense-of-self chasing a disinterested guy, why she lost her self-respect bending over backwards for a word of approval. He watched as a shared laugh, a private conversation, an email… formed a bond in the wrong context - without commitment, which grew stronger and more and more inappropriate, more risky. Mr. Mtima watched sadly when things fell apart and the spark in his friend’s soul was dampened.

Mr. Mtima did not earn much, he was not clever or especially handsome, but he knew the truth about what made him happy, what kept him peaceful, the things that made him calm and gentle... he was the most powerful person I’ve ever met.

Ref: Never offer your heart to someone who eats hearts by Alice Walker

POWER by Z. Allan Ntata

2009-12-03T09:21:00.001+02:00

Freud argued that sex is the primary drive and the primal instinct in all living things. A very simplistic view of the Freudian argument is that achievements are essentially driven by the desire to win mates, the desire to perpetuate one’s genes at the expense of the other. In other words, When Leonardo da Vinci decided to paint his artistic masterpiece in the Cistine chapel, he did it, perhaps not even to his conscious knowledge, so that he could win the girls.

Alfred Adler on the other hand argued that the dominant impulse is the quest for recognition. The desire to be first or to be recognized for our efforts is more important to our ego that sometimes it even competes with our quest for food.

It can be argued, however, that lying underneath these theories is the common denominator of power. It has been said that where power is, power goes! If it is your genes that are carried from generation to generation in a society, then you could be said to be quite powerful. If your efforts are recognized for your efforts and given the credit and the necessary vitamin A to your ego, then you are a powerful man. It has even been suggested that power is the greatest aphrodisiac for women! Men of power seem to have no problems with sex or recognition. And so from generation to generation, millions are drawn to the allure of power, and unfortunately, also its trappings.

The Chinese philosopher Lao Tsu observed that the power that is really worth pursuing, however, should not be power over others, but power over oneself.

Many seek power over others forgetting that real power is the power that keeps in check the war that rages in every soul. Indeed, if individuals had this power, we would see less of the atrocities that are the result of the abuse of power. The current state of the world is a clear testament to the fact that in spite of its glamour and attraction, to every large extent, power in the hands of men is as destructive a tool as intelligence in the hands of the psychotic.

Power corrupts, declared Benjamin Franklin, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
We strive to study so we can obtain knowledge, and knowledge is power. The paradox is therefore self proclaiming and demanding of every thinking person’s consideration: Study hard, obtain knowledge and be corrupt!

- Z. Allan Ntata

Power / Dreams by Jim Wild

2009-12-03T09:13:00.001+02:00

Danny doesn't seem to have a lot of recurring dreams these days (these nights). He used to have a lot more. There was one, not so long ago and quite regularly, in which he was supposed to be taking an exam, or simply graduating from a class (to Dan’s surprise, Freud had talked about this one), usually a maths class, only to realise that he hadn't attended the requisite number of lessons to qualify, and so he'd have to do it all again if he ever wanted to be a writer, or get a degree, or finish high school, or whatever. There were also a number which involved school or work in which he would be late, or be lost, or be naked, or any combination of the three (and Freud's right here, too: the thing about being naked is that nobody notices; how depressing). These seem to have tapered off though, of late. Or at least that's Dan’s story, and he’s sticking to it.

There's one that still sticks in his mind though, more than any, and for a couple of reasons. Since childhood, Danny has had a dream in which he would wake up in his bed at home (his parents’ home), get up, and switch on the light, only for it to not work. So he'd walk out onto the landing and switch that light on; ditto. And then something scary would happen. Often (no idea why) it would be wolves howling in the bedroom. Occasionally, your more common or garden ghost would appear. But the interesting thing was how he learned to react. He'd know he was dreaming, and to this day, he will always recognise a nightmare when he dreams one. So he’d throw himself down the stairs. This, Danny knew, would wake him up.

It got to the stage where on hitting that second switch to find nought but blackness, Danny’d throw himself down the stairs anyway, regardless of whether or not anything came, because, you know, why wait? He still does this today (tonight?) with scary dreams. He know what's coming, he know it's just a dream, so he kills himself, or at least hurts himself as much as is possible in the context of the dream, in order to save himself from the inevitable.

Of course, it occurred to the young Danny then as it does to the old Danny now that, you know, he might just wake up one night, in the midst of a power-cut, mistake the failed electrics for the onrush of terror, and jump by mistake. But to this day that has never stopped him from doing it.

For some reason, it's only ever the nightmares that are lucid anymore. The young Danny used to be able to dream anything he wanted. There used to be a point in almost any dream where he would realise reality's absence, and he loved the power that would then give him. He became adept at a kind of doublethink, as he learned that recognising the dream for what it was too quickly would cause him to wake. He'd tell himself it wasn't a dream (was really), this was all really happening (no it wasn't, chuckle), was definitely real (uh huh, whatever you say), so that he could stay in, thereby gaining the power to play. And play he would. The young Danny could fly without wings. The young Danny could fight, and win. The young Danny could screw ANYONE he wanted.

No more. For some reason, the ability to control his own dreams got taken from him. All he was left with were the nightmares. The only options that the old Danny can entertain, rather worryingly, are to hang around to see what’s going to happen to him, or to jump.

He has to be more careful though, these days. There are a lot more power-cuts than there were when he was younger. And sometimes, like today for instance, he just runs out of electricity because he’s forgotten to pay the bill. In cases like these, then, and in this context, it's probably far safer to hang around and see what might happen next. Or maybe just to go back to bed.

- Jim Wilde

No guts, no glory by Acacia

2009-11-12T09:17:00.002+02:00

I rallied the girls. A friend of a friend was launching his project somewhere in area three... should be good maybe interesting. First disappointment – no booze. Secondly, it was full of young, enthusiastic, teetotallers – us alcoholic grannies didn’t know anyone. Thirdly, since when was spirituality a requirement for humanitarian interest? We stood around, read a leaflet ten times. We dutifully listened to the intro, we dutifully watched the video...

In Malawi everyone is terribly miserable (lots of sad-eyes shots), there’s wars and bombs, fires and riot police, oh no that’s actually in the rest of Africa . Back to Malawi … there’s only huts, poor poor people, seems they just sit around and look glum. But don’t worry its all good… apparently there’s some kids in a village who we play football with, lots of football, lots of running (slow mo shots). There’s also some feeding going on (kids smiling), walking around villages, chats with women. Join us, lets make a change together (text on the screen), or something similar.

We’re giving each other side-ways glances, the video has made us into smug bitches… who do they think we are? We don’t buy this shit, we know better. Maybe this kind of thing goes down well in America – pulls a few heart-strings, but we see through it. We want objectives and action points. We want to know where they get their funding, how they spend it. Hey christians, the devil is in the details!

Ahhh well don’t knock them too hard, they’re doing a million times more than we are, yes that’s right cos we’re doing absolutely nothing. Ok that’s uncomfortable; don’t want to think about that. But anyway at least we came, and we saw, now where can we make our donation? Let’s get out of here; nearest pub ‘Mabuya’.

That’s when it gets REALLY uncomfortable…. they don’t want our money!!! What? What do you mean they don’t want money? It’s a project right, an orphan project or something. They need money to run, I’ve got a spare K500 note, I want to help poor kids. They don’t want my money?! Gimme a basket goddamnit. If they’re not fundraising, what the hell was this about. Now the smug bitches are pissed off, confused, was this a complete waste of time? We were the first to leave. By way of apology, I got the first round.

Like most new organisations in Malawi, the Chisomo Idea has areas that it can work on, strengthen and improve. What sets it apart from other would-be-do-gooders is that it’s a ‘movement’. This means that leader Noel doesn’t want your spare change, he wants your soul!! Ha-ha. No seriously, they’re looking for investments of the personal kind. Manpower, football skills, prayers, inspirational speaking… er actually they’re not really sure what they want from you… but they’ll be happy to use anything on offer to help their work in various villages. I’ve never come across a bunch of people so open and flexible, inclusive, so receptive to new ideas. Actions speak louder than any words, or strategies or annual reports.

I love Noel’s concept cos I get it. Just a little bit of personal investment leads to more interest, commitment, ongoing involvement, maybe even passion. No guts; no glory. No sweat; no sweet. As my life changes, so do the villagers’. This is in line with the ubuntu approach to true community (I am because we are), it ticks Gandhi’s box (be the change you seek), it’s consistent with humanitarian concern (love your neighbour as yourself), but it also emphasises the importance of the right motive (the lord looks at the heart). With the ultimate resource – people who actually care, I think the rest will fall into place, including funding.

There’s a catch. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Involvement is a tough requirement, many fall by the wayside. Like me; months after expressing my willingness to help (few days after the launch, had a nice chat with Noel, we discussed some options), all I’ve done is answer a few phone calls from the group. I think I was supposed to attend a meeting, maybe watch some kids play football, but ahem I’m a professional – sorry not available in working hours, weekends are also hectic etcetera etcetera. Is the Chisomo Idea more than just a nice idea? I imagined amazing possibilities, but I didn’t get stuck in and make them happen. Not so smug now bitch.

So far, I haven’t made the grade to join this movement of people hell-bent on loving their neighbours, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t…. check out what they do in the villages, see if you care enough to watch some football, hang out with the guys, find out what else is possible. I know that by ensuring personal commitment, the Chisomo Idea will achieve great things.

by Acacia > website link, read at Lilongwe Writers Circle > website link on 28 Oct, published on The Chisomo Idea > website link 11 Nov 2009

Space on Trip by Tendy Kay

2009-11-01T09:01:00.001+02:00

The room spinning
My temperature constricted in one valve about to POP!
Eyes doubled in size
Am sure I hit the light switch
Was it off or on?
Either way,
I cannot see, my head echoes, echoes…
Where is my phone?
Face book update: “I am really high today!”
Comment on that b#%$&!
Ummm boyfriend?
He lasted two hours or was it less?
I shall love love him forever, yes I will,
Was his name Peter or something funky?
He is hot! A definitely-next-time guy,
Now shhh, shhh, shhh
To my bed,
I go find a corner and sit, stand, sleep?
I can’t!
I need my phone!
Shhh, shhh, shhh, the room; echoes echoes
Has stopped spinning
Where’s the bed?
Where is my stuff?
Oooooh! The colors so bright on the wall
The nice colors on my wall are dancing,
I want to dance too, where are my shoes?
I am in the open, it’s too open!
Thought I was inside?
Rush, rush, rush!
Back in to find the radio,
Calm down; yes slow, not too quickly,
Aaah! There is my bed!
Breathe, breathe,
It’s all caving in! Why is it doing that?
I need to get out!
Breathe, breathe, don’t touch me!
Need to go, really need to…
Oh listen!
Music.
Soft, soft, soft, LOUD!
Doors are banging!
No it’s you talking again,
Who are you?
Its only 10 in the afternoon!

- Tendy Kay

SPACE by Qodebreaker

2009-10-29T15:00:00.001+02:00

Hungry, thirsty faces. Pale, weeping, hollow, needy begging. Stretched limbs echoing the need, they beckon.

She sees them, waves and waves of faces, outstreched arms and rigid phalluses. A sea of humanity all longing for some connection.

"Validate me, Love me, notice me, respond to me, befriend me, give to me, screw me!" And many other voices cry, shout, whisper in the cacophony.

Gravity holds them down, feet planted firmly on Terra Firma. And the same gravity gives them the protective layer of air, an atmosphere of safety.

Here she floats, in space, the deep endless void. Groundless, tetherless just the stars all around and cosmic dust.

It irritates them this freedom. They crave for it. They loath it. It mystifies.

They say she is a selfish, heartless bitch. To so not need the chains of belonging, to not thrive on connectedness.

But she is the child of the universe. Her eyes have seen the Geravian Galaxy, where 2 suns rule. Her feet have walked among the living asteroid belt of the Murlka Galaxy.

Her soul has seen universes hidden within universes.

Earth is but one tiny corner of space, a spatial prison in time for the spirit and the mind. Her spirit is too free to be earthbound, so her feet leave invinsible footprints in space, the Universes are her space.

Rebound by Z. Allan Ntata

2009-09-28T09:30:00.001+02:00

It has a feel good factor comparable almost to that of watching the misfortune of an enemy. After a disastrous relationship that leaves us devastated, we quickly find re-assurance in the new found affection of someone who makes us feel that we are not failures after all, we are not unlovable. The problem was with the other guy!

But at its heart, the concept is a clear affront to love and romance and in spite of its healing ability its practice should be avoided. What is it that makes us seek the affirmation of someone we don’t care much about just to believe once again in our own sense of self-worth? The cause of the high percentage of relationship failures nowadays may very well be seen in the fact that nobody ever takes the time anymore for self-examination after a relationship crashes.

The concept of rebound is not the black box inside of which one might find the information required to assess the cause of this crash and safeguard against future crashes. It is rather tantamount to jumping straight into the cockpit of another plane- broken limbs and all- right after getting off the wreckage on one flight. If romance and love are related and if they are notions that we truly cherish, then “Rebound” in the contemporary sense must be declared love's public enemy number one.

Now What by Tendy Kay

2009-09-26T23:06:00.008+02:00

So you left in huff,
All sorts of excuses in a bag,
More like a cargo box, because all that stuff was heavy,
I should know, you left me to muse about it,
Okay, so am over it, now what?

The next guy he is so so!
He does not sell like a promo,
Am bored when he calls,
Fall asleep when writes,
I think he is so feminine; he could be a homo,

The other guy, oh well,
You knew him too well, you took his place,
A case of displacement but who am I to say?
So he sniffing around like he always does,
His lady in the back, two babies down,
He is still sniffing, but he aint getting none.

Then there is that guy,
Mmm yes! Him! Him I like!
Very mysterious, calls and comes,
Just at the right times,
Very handy…

So, with all that said, now what?
You are still in a huff,
I still don't get it,
I have done all that,
You have had your share am sure,
Asian, South African, English?
I don't know where you've been
But now what?

You need to stop writing and calling
That stuff messes me up
I need to stop stalling
This moving on thing is appalling
I want to be comfortable
Do that gazing thing,
Slow dance, hold hands,
Call you my man again,
You've got me thinking you are game,
But there you go again.

Suitcase of excuses, an air ticket and a huff
I have to go through all that, again?
You have to kidding me,
Well, you can go!
But let's make pact,
The next time you come around
You aint getting jack!

Tendy Kay

Rebound by Ntawira

2009-09-24T08:01:00.009+02:00

As I look into your eyes, and you look into mine, I have no choice but to look away.
I feel embarrassed; I am ashamed of my own feelings, made worse by the knowledge that I am just your rebound.
I would love to dream that we have a future together, and dream that one day you will love me, but I know that I am just your rebound.
You have good intentions, you check me out, and really, you think that I'm quite nice; you don't even realize that I am just your rebound.
Conversations we have about our similarities and differences, establish our concrete foundations for friendship, and confirm that in no way am I like the one that went before me.
As we talk, I can see the thoughts going through your mind, and see that you are trying not to compare, but subconsciously you can't help but see the comparisons.
It has been a while now, and you are trying to move on, outwardly changing aspects of your life in an effort to appear to have progressed forward.
You successfully fool yourself and those acquaintances around you, but I can see you are in self destruct mode. It is a long, slow part of your life that I fear will only end one way. You are not alone and yet you are lonely. You are smiling and yet you are hurting inside.
I can make you smile for a time, you respond the way you should to everything I say and do. I think we could have fun together, we could have had a future together, but, sadly, I know I am just your rebound.

-Ntawira-
16 September 2009

REBOUND by Qodebreaker

2009-09-23T13:48:00.006+02:00

In the golden valley where lay Nerfetiti, Tutankhamun, Ramses I and Seti II, in collosal wedges pointing to the sky. In the land of the fertile Nile under the eye of Ra, there I walked.

A pharaoh young and powerful. At my word people were raised or humbled. There I built palaces befitting my glory and power.

I was a god among mortals. I was like the child of Horus, the blood of Amun.
But irony is a cruel queen of fate. From the Nile's fertility came an insect so small, its fecund bloodthirsty kiss was the Osiris' kiss of death. In fits of fevers my life expired.

Egypt mourned the extinguished life of a young pharaoh for forty days as my embalmed body lay in state, shrouded by linen cloth treated to preserve my body for ages. A mummy but devoid of life or life giving essence.

They laid me in the Valley of the Kings, in a pyramid filled with treasures that I would use in my next life.

Three days after my burial, the jade scarab beetle that was placed on my chest burrowed its way into my heart and the life of the Son made me live again. Quickened I was now as one, the Living dead. Soon accustomed to the surroundings and tired of the mausoleum celebrating a life gone, I pushed my way out of the sarcophagus.

Through secret passageways I walked, and out through a hidden trap door till my eyes saw the sun again reflected on harsh sands that stretched for miles and miles on end.

My laughter was dry and haughty, fists raised in defiance to Osiris. I lived. My hands sought the linen cloth chains that bound me so I could undo them. As the chords unravelled, to my horror my skin exposed to the elements began to shrivel and I saw Osiris' death touch creeping all over me again.

So for days I transversed the expanse of the desert till I came worn out to the Temple of The Phoenix God, who died and rose again. There I met Him, the God who lived among mortals, the High Priest, falling to my knees I cried, "Here is my life, slowly being lost, here are the strips of linen I undid to my own undoing. High priest of the Creator God I need to be rebound".

Qodebreaker

LWC

2009-01-01T10:12:00.001+02:00