At Christmas

Christmas Hope Quotes Sayings, quotes_ edgar guest photo quoto

A man is at his finest towards the finish of the year;
He is almost what he should be when the Christmas season’s here;
Then he’s thinking more of others than he’s thought the months before,
And the laughter of his children is a joy worth toiling for.

He is less a selfish creature than at any other time;
When the Christmas spirit rules him he comes close to the sublime.
When it’s Christmas man is bigger and is better in his part;
He is keener for the service that is prompted by the heart.

All the petty thoughts and narrow seem to vanish for awhile
And the true reward he’s seeking is the glory of a smile.
Then for others he is toiling and somehow it seems to me
That at Christmas, he is almost what God wanted him to be.

If I had to paint a picture of a man I think I’d wait
Till he’d fought his selfish battles and had put aside his hate.
I’d not catch him at his labors when his thoughts are all of pelf,
On the long days and the dreary when he’s striving for himself.

I’d not take him when he’s sneering, when he’s scornful or depressed,
But I’d look for him at Christmas when he’s shining at his best.
Man is ever in a struggle and he’s oft misunderstood;
There are days the worst that’s in him is the master of the good,

But at Christmas, kindness rules him and he puts himself aside
And his petty hates are vanquished and his heart is opened wide.
Oh, I don’t know how to say it, but somehow it seems to me
That at Christmas, man is almost what God sent him here to be

. ~Edgar Albert Guest

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I find a lot of truth to this poem. And I pray that the spirit of this season carries all of us into the new year and always.

Merry Christmas.
Shine on 🙂

Christmas Blues

 

xmas

I woke up today, walked outside and sniffed the air. It was there: Christmas. I could smell it in the cold, dry wind that signaled the beginning of the harmattan. It was there in the dust that twirled in the air; in this incredible heat from an angry sun, ever less often punctuated by rain. Rain in November was crazy– if anyone knows the seasons in Nigeria you know there should be none of that past October. But Lagos is the city cushioned by the Atlantic. We get rain whenever and harmattan only when it wins the battle of seasons. Yet there’s Christmas. I heard my first jingle yesterday: Jingle Bells, odd song to sing without snow or sleighs. But the season transcends international boundaries and brings with it a spirit of oneness. I can pretend the mist outside my window, sneaking in beneath glass panes isn’t trying to dry out the oil on my skin or dissipate the next hour, leaving in its wake chapped lips. I can pretend its snow like all the Christmas movies I’ve seen.

Soon corporate buildings will light up with decorations welcoming clients and customers with some cheer. The shops will advertise hampers filled with regular everyday items, strung together with red and green bows. And yes, I get to close work in a few weeks and run home—home could be the village back East with the rest of the family, sucking on marrows from goat meat pepper soup, or it could be here in Lagos, enjoying the road without traffic congestion and the freshest air you can breathe for a while.

For the first time all the stress and heartache of this year suddenly melts away. The moments of joy I’ve experienced seems like nothing compared to what is coming ahead. I finally get what the Apostle meant when he said leaving behind the past and striving for what’s ahead. There is no certainty what’s ahead, but somehow there is no fear of tomorrow—just hope. Lots of hope and a joy that cannot be explained

It’s amazing what one month can do. If we could take half the cheer of December and distribute to gloomier months—like October or May—there’d be so much left. I think though that December’s cheer lies in the knowledge of the end of a season and hopefully the beginning of a new one. The anticipation of meeting loved ones again. Perhaps the added joy that comes from bringing happiness to others. And there’s Christ—the birth of hope to a world filled with sadness. It’s a good time to remember what the 25th means for Christians all over the world.

Christmas will come whether there is heat, cold or rain. It is ironical though that a season of birth and life will be heralded by another season of dying plants. But who cares? Death hasn’t been more appealing knowing that when it’s past, new life will bloom again. I think it will be nice to forget what day it is for the rest of the month and watch it glide by gracefully.

May your lives be filled with all the cheer December brings.

Shadows

candle

It was a starless night. The wind howled like a lone wolf outside and the little filtered by the mosquito net barring the window carried the promise of a heavy downpour. We gathered inside the tiny room housing two of us as was our ritual, were we would talk about everything and nothing in particular. A candle stood regally upon the study table, casting its warm glow upon the room and beside it sat a Bible in its divine glory, one of the most show-cased and least opened books.

They said I never say much. I smiled. As always there was little to say. We were but different people brought together by providence. They talked about study, boys, family, religion, food, sex, love. I smiled and laughed on cue, all the time thinking of how much we had changed.

Yes, there was always so much to talk about. The conversation went on around me, one minute building into a crescendo, followed by a barrage of laughter and the next, a sound no louder than a whisper.

I looked to my right and sniffed the air again, rain. Then a muffled sound snapped me out of my reverie. I held my breath as my heart raced and adrenaline pumped into my muscles numbed from sitting Buddha style. Something was out there. The conversation went on, and into fear grappled mind words finally began to filter through: slut…not so beautiful…poorly dressed…likes men…sleeps…lecturers


I shook my head to clear my mind and turned back to my companions. Lightening flashed and from the corner of my eyes I caught a glimpse of a silhouette huddled behind the door.

Few minutes after the door opened and she strutted into the room. A quick glance at her downcast eyes confirmed my already budding suspicion. She’d been listening. I glanced at my companions who moments ago struck by dumbness, so artfully recovered and now launched into new horizons like they weren’t moments ago gossiping about our once absent friend. She flopped on the mattress and joined in the conversation, her sentences so often punctuated by childlike laughter.

I wondered at humans– the length we would go to make ourselves feel better. How easy it was to misunderstand others simply because they lived different lives from ours, or at least what we are used to having around us. Why it was so easy to forgive a child for being too trusting, looking at the world like a playground, and choosing to see only the inherent good in others; while with adults we brand them honorary titles like slut. But do we really grow out of our childish nature or does our shell just grow bigger? Do we don new clothes, fresh masks every day, live like society dictates and find a drug for our unhappiness and frustration? We carry bibles; hide behind religion or whatever else makes us feel good, pretending to be upright, but inside we are simply a bitter lot, people very much unsatisfied with life, hoping for redemption.

Behind each girl was a story– experiences, mistakes, choices, life. I saw dreams that could best be likened to fairy tales woven in the web of time and left to gather dust because of fear– fear of society, and fear of the unknown. But she was different, brave. So much had changed around her but she seemed untouched. She’d wrapped her past around her but was never deterred by it. She was life. She was like the candle: tall, regal, warm and full of light.

The flame flickered, casting a shadow. Its light shifting, changing, and then it was back to normal.

From across the room our eyes met and held. She regarded me briefly and I read the unspoken questions in them. I burned in shame. Then slowly her lips curved into a smile and I knew all was forgiven.

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I wrote this a year ago (June 2014) and since my brain is slightly short-circuited right now, I figured it worth digging up stuff from my archive. This was one of my earlier attempts writing something that looked like a story, 🙂 I can’t tell if I succeeded or not so you can be the judge.

See you around.

Your Story Doesn’t Count

WP_20160110_17_39_19_Pro[1].jpg

His was the only familiar face as I stepped into the bus. I made my way to his side—more leg space I told myself, but it was curiosity that propelled my feet. Then I spent the next minute stealing glances, willing my mind to connect the dots three weeks old.

We’d moved only ten minutes when he switched from the movie he’d been watching to hit up his friend on a social media channel. My waning curiosity piqued, searching for answers that eluded my mind.
Remember that babe I told you about that ran away with my money?
—Eh, you see am?
She’s beside me. She was looking at me when she came in like she couldn’t recognize me.
—Lol. Remind am na.
No. Leave am.
—If na me I go talk. I wan chop too.
No, it doesn’t matter.

My heart sank. This is the reason we must never eavesdrop on people’s conversations. I picked up my phone and told my friend what had happened, calling the young man beside me a jerk for his action. I could hear his laugh in my head.

It had been a mistake. Three weeks ago some driver with a temper gave four of us money to split among ourselves because he couldn’t be bothered to find loose change. That was difficult. I had custody of a boy’s change—a meager sum considering, but no less his. We spent the first few minutes looking for a means to split the money without succeeding because buses were going in different directions. Buses going my way were scarce, so as soon as one pulled over I was eager to jump in and get to work looking for change from other passengers. I succeeded. But when I looked out the window for my companions not one of them was in sight. When they eventually showed up, my call for attention was drowned by honking vehicles and the driver was already on his way.

Three weeks later I was beside one of them without a clue if he was the gentleman owed money or just one of the others. I contemplated raising it up and asking. It seemed awkward– for me. I figured I could pay his fare anyway and get the debt out of my system. But what if the real owner of the money meets me tomorrow? The stolen conversation set me straight, infuriated me, embarrassment burned my cheek. I turned to him willing myself to break the ice.

What’s the name of your movie?

He responded and asked if I wanted it. I nodded in the affirmative. We spent the rest of the journey pairing devices over Bluetooth, losing connection, sharing hotspot (his), searching for a quicker means to give me a movie I was half interested in watching. I watched him with curious eyes as he held my Tablet.

The driver requested for our money. I stilled his hand as it reached for his wallet.

Let me pay.

I didn’t think he was going to let me, so I pulled out twice the fare and handed it over to the collector. I glanced at my feet. Had he said thank you? Was that a smirk on his face when I touched his hand? Did he think I paid out of guilt or perhaps as payment for sharing his mobile data? Did he really believe I ran off with his money? Would he have thought that if I were a man? Was he simply a decent guy or living out the biblical mandate: pay back evil with good?

Was I over thinking this?

My eyes wandered to him again. He’d abandoned his movie and was trying to download a heavy file on my Tablet that would allow him send the movie faster—with his mobile data. None of this made any sense. He was a jerk, right? Why would he do any of this after obviously gloating to his friend an hour ago? A part of me wondered if he intended to run away with my Tablet when we arrive at our destination as revenge.

Finally the bus stopped and the passengers alighted. I got my Tablet back as we got off too. He asked for my destination and I responded. We stood in silence. My bus came, I turned to him, said goodbye with a half-smile. He smiled back.

Neither of us knew the other’s name. Neither asked what had happened that day. No story volunteered. It didn’t matter anyway. We each formed our opinions.

Alive, Barely Breathing

writing quote

27

The days past since my last post on a pet friend turned food. The stats tell me you’ve visited weekly, especially Sundays and Fridays. Everyday my Reader and mailbox flood with new posts from other blogs and websites I follow– I wonder how they write, where their inspiration and drive comes from. One word comes back each time, discipline.

According to Brian Tracy, discipline is doing what you need to do, even when you don’t feel like it. Timi likes to write about this and sustaining momentum—I think it’s an admirable thing, being able to push yourself to do the necessary. One of the biggest problems of my life is keeping to something. You’d declare me mad for writing that now seeing as I’ve kept this blog for over a year and stuck to writing one of the most life-sapping exams of my existence lately. Indiscipline should not exist in my vocabulary yet sometimes it seems that’s my enemy.

Few weeks ago I read a post on Holistic Wayfarer’s blog. Where does your writing fit in the scheme of your life? Is it hobby, work, life, cathartic, fun?

I’ve thought about that—what writing is for me. Writing isn’t fun. Nope. It’s not hobby; I’d rather read a book. It’s neither work nor sums up my being. There are a number of things capable of filling those slots. For me, this is air; the cut I bleed through. When the voices in my head refuse to shut up, I write. When my eyes see too much, I write. When my heart is heavy, I write. When the injustice around me becomes too much to bear, I rip the Buffon behind it in the comfort of my ink.
At this rate when I’m married dear future husband might have to keep his eyes peeled for epistles in sheets from a troubled future wife. Just because.

There is a backlog of unwritten trouble. The people in my close circle have been supportive and I love them dearly for this. Sometimes though this thing around my neck squeezes a little tighter, and I don’t think it will go away until I write and do something I’ve toyed with for a while now—stick the pages in a bottle and let it float across the Atlantic… or sink. It’s a very clichĂ© thing to do, but it does seem like fun. Briefly considered burning, but when have I ever been able to let written words die? It’s sacrilege.
What ritual would you do with your pages if you had to write something cathartic?

On a lighter note;
I signed up for a course on WordPress about brand building… or something similar; then didn’t follow-up. I’m blaming indiscipline, disinterest or the world was too much with me.

Also been toying with new themes for the blog– can’t seem to settle. Perhaps you could help. I’ve vacillated between Motif and Highwind and… searching. I’d like to go grey (no colours.) What do you think?

The news is downright disturbing lately; reports of rape, violence and sexual crimes against women and children. The madness in the world now is capable of taking the shine from your perfect day. On the one hand I think people have gone mad and these things are end-time signs; on the other I think maybe this isn’t entirely a bad thing—the news. Bad things have gone on for decades, if there’s so much of it hitting the news now then it can also mean people are speaking up and becoming vigilant with our children. The latter gives me a modicum of hope; the former depresses.

Well, guess I’ll be seeing you. Do tell me how you’ve been and what pages of your life this hermit has missed.

A Tale Of Bobby

He was virginal white, full of life and every bit active. I fell utterly in love the first day we met.

Aunt had just come home from a very busy day at work and we went out to welcome her and bring in the bags. I usually didn’t take part in the boot-clearing-bag-carrying ritual because the parents were the only ones older than I was. It was family tradition to leave work like this for the younger kids.

After a few minutes I came out to loud exclamations from the younger kids. They all stood gathered round an object, and were  obviously fascinated by what they saw. Curious, I took a few steps closer to see what had put the spark in their eyes… that was when I met him. Adorable, ginormous, probably obese creature. I named him Bobby.

Bobby like I mentioned earlier was full of life. He made himself quite comfortable at home. He knew all the entrances to the house, and would on certain occasions find his way into the store in the kitchen. I assumed he was pecking away at crumbs left by my feisty little cousin. Sometimes Bobby would strut into the living room clucking like he paid the rent and we were mere visitors. I remember fondly one such occasion.

PHCN had struck again in the early hours of the night and the living room was without a light source. Being quite comfortable in darkness and knowing like the back of my palm every nook of the house, I didn’t bother walking with one. I made my way to sit at the dinning table (which is my favourite spot) when I felt this cool rush of  breeze on my bare legs. I smiled in contentment thanking God for such small wonders (having the wind blow on your bare legs is an awesome feeling). This went on for a few minutes with only a brief intermittent pause before the next rush came, when suddenly something stabbed me on the foot. I yelled an ouch and jumped up from my very comfortable sit, when I heard what was unmistakably Bobby’s cluck. All these while he had been busy having the time of his life under the dinning table and apparently I was interrupting and crowding him. It would seem my brief cooling sensation was actually a ‘back off I got here first’ warning which I failed  to decode and so being what he was, he went violent. I flung open the door, and poked him with a cane till he found his way back out in the cold– after making me chase him round the sitting room.

That’s how comfortable Bobby made himself. He didn’t mind at all that he was actually an early Easter gift from a family friend, and that we were someday going to have to eat him. No, he didn’t mind at all. He just took control of his environment and the house. In fact he almost became a Dog. Whenever we left the gate carelessly open, he’d take a walk down the Close and still find his way back home for a drink of water and feed. We all loved Bobby.

Then came the day Aunty had to kill him. I begged and pleaded that Bobby’s life be spared. I forgot that he annoyed me consistently every morning when he would deliberately choose to make his morning cry below my window. I forgot that he would walk into the living room and leave his mark with that horrid stench. I forgot that I had the duty of feeding him every morning. I forgot all that, I just wanted Bobby to live. But Aunt wouldn’t hear of it. She chased him down– and he did try to escape, my obese friend– and caught him. She held him down with a foot on his wings, and the other on his bond feet. She pulled out the pristine white feathers on his long bulging neck with a knife she had carefully sharpened. Then she cut him. Bobby jerked, trying to suck in as much air as his severed wind pipe could hold. His blood spilled out on the pavement, rich in color and thick. The spot beneath his throat rose and fell as slowly life seeped out of him. Then it was over. Bobby was dead.

Aunt dipped him into a basin of steaming hot water and peeled off his feathers. Then she made me hold each piece of him as she cut off huge chunks of meat from that obese body. I stared in wonder. I had never seen such amount of meat come out of one creature. It was a good thing she didn’t make me cook him. I was feeling guilty enough that I let her kill him, and she made me hold his flesh for mutilatation.

In a few hours Bobby was ready. I wasn’t going to partake– No. I wasn’t going to betray what we had by joining in that unholy feast. I was going to stay true and mourn dear Bobby. But I was weak. The aroma from the  pot was too tempting. I resisted the urge for as long as I could, but my body and rumbling belly would have none of that. An hour later, I was cracking bones and sucking out marrows. Bobby was absolutely delicious.

We’ve had many come and go after Bobby. There was Hansel and Gretel– the twins, Rose– who ran away, Peter, Paul, Maryann and a lot more that I took no particular interest in. But none of them could ever match up to Bobby. Not in beauty, perfection, size, nor brains… and yes, let’s not forget taste.

In loving memory of Bobby– pal extraordinaire. Entertainer. Irritant. Pest. Food.

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This is an old photo of Bobby from 2010 when all the skill I had in photography was the combined effort of a 2MP mobile camera and bad lighting 😀 Goes without saying eh. Forgive the poor quality; had to dig into facebook archive to find it.

Saints. Sinners. Standards. Sex.

For some time now I have told my friends how much of a hermit I’ve been. Well today I crawled out of the real-world cave, visited the internet and came upon a post on twitter. Now this post isn’t something new, it’s not even something fresh, but it brought to mind again a certain trend that’s weighed heavily on my heart.

Let’s start with some background information.

moral choice. right or wrong

I’ve realised that people like to look for a piece of them in others. Perhaps this is some way our minds build connections– kindred spirits– and makes it easier to bond with others with whom we share similar behavior. For instance, people who consider themselves ‘bad’ (sinners) will likely bond with other people who share an atom of ‘bad’ traits with them. Likewise goody-two-shoes (saints) tend to attach themselves to people who are like them. We’re looking for something identifiable– markers perhaps that assures us we are not among strangers.

There is a twist though; it’s almost a bit of fairytale stuff. Sinners who tend to become attracted to Saints often try to change them. And vice versa. While the latter is queerly acceptable for reasons of making people the best version of themselves if they choose, the same cannot be said for the former.

Now about that trend I talked about earlier, there have been discussions ongoing on forums about women sexuality. For some  reason there seems a consensus that women who aren’t virgins should not deny sex to their boyfriends. There’s also another that women who claim virgins are most likely lying about it. I have some difficulty wrapping my head around this.

Where does a person’s choice to change come in?

When a woman declines sex, what has the state of her vagina got to do with it?

Should a person desirous of leading a different lifestyle after years of living in a moral cesspit be denied?

I  understand that morality for people is subjective, dependent to a large extent on religious doctrines, laws of the state, social influence and intuition, but the drastic decline is troubling. It’s like we’re telling one another, once a sinner always a sinner, refusing to acknowledge that anything good can come out something once terrible.

I believe in change. I believe that people have some inherent goodness awaiting discovery. And I know there exists some who cannot believe in themselves until someone does.

So why won’t we allow those who have been brave enough to cross the threshold from Sinner to Sainthood lead a new life? It’s like praying a person turns around from their ways with an eye shut, while keeping the other open hoping that they’ll slip. It doesn’t add up.

Define your choices,  hold yourself accountable to your standards. And then hold everyone else to it.

What a person chooses becomes their new marker; their new identifier. I do not mean that the past dissolves into nothingness, no. If that happened there’ll be no lessons learnt from our poor choices. But people should be allowed to be. If she says no sex, don’t go wondering why you shouldn’t eat from her honey-pot because some guy who was a product of her erratic behavior ate from it. We need to learn to respect choices. It’s disturbing when a man asks this virginity question…  Seriously again, what has the state of her vagina got to do with anything?!

This is for young women out there because I am one and can write from the shoe that hurts me. Virginity is a good thing. Awesome.  But it’s not everything. Aside keeping yourself for so long, it’s important you know why you have kept yourself for so long:

Is it supposed play as an advantage in the dating pool?

Are you waiting for that special man?

Do you think it’s wrong because God said so?

Define your choices,  hold yourself to your standards. And then hold everyone else to it.

quotes on morality and choice

If you’ve been sexually active and choose to become inactive, then this is your new standard. Ignore whatever silly people out there say. I don’t know if it’s called revirginization, but don’t let anyone make you feel like you have to become less than you’ve chosen simply because it makes you look cool and makes them feel good.  The relationships you keep should edify not cause you to stumble again (Of course same goes for the guys).

In favor of men who are skeptical about the virginity proclamation, it’s difficult to entirely blame them when some women have turned this age-old sign of virtue to a get-out-of-jail card. When a reason becomes old it simply becomes impossible to accept it as valid. Don’t be liars. Virginity is not an free pass. It’s not your key to the world and really it takes just a well placed sex organ to lose it. What should count is your word and choice– after all it is your body and you own exclusive rights to it. Don’t go about allowing people make you defend your decision to deny intimacy.

Pearls should not be given to Pigs because they’ll trample on it, completely ignorant of its worth

To those in search of a morally pristine being, at the very least make certain you’re pristine enough and worthy of them. It’s hypocrisy to want something you’re not desirous of being. A bit of biblical wisdom here, pearls should not be given to Pigs because they’ll trample on it, completely ignorant of its worth. If you’re in search of something more down-to-earth then there are those available too, but allow the people who wish to crossover do so in peace without pressure.

Here is one thing I do believe though: If there is a God in heaven he’ll give to everyone exactly as they deserve.

 

Image: Google Images

Freestyle Writing Challenge

I picked up this Freestyle Writing Challenge from George and he’s come up with an interesting topic that tickled.

If you were invited to someone’s home for dinner and the meal was the worst thing you’d ever tasted, what would you do?

I have never considered myself a foodie, nor am I big on paying visits to people either, but as a general rule peculiar to me and maybe a number of people around, my eyes and nose eat before my mouth does. What this basically means is that I have to find a meal visually appealing as well as having an irresistible aroma before the thought of munching comes in.

But what if the sight and smell are deceptive? That’s a funny one seeing as I have been caught smack dab in this situation before.

My facial expression says a lot and so I expect that the faces of others would too. Naturally my first reaction will be to see how others are taking this onslaught of their taste buds. It’s always exciting watching people pretend to love something. There’s the initial shock accompanied by a widening of the eyes. The forced swallow with a wince, like the esophagus is trying so hard to keep the food down. Then there’s the total lock-down. The last part I love the most: Pretense with a pretty smile that fails to touch the eyes.

Next up is seeing how the host/hostess handles their plate, and if they’re even aware how horrible the food tastes. Maybe they’ll pretend it’s decent or they’re just clueless.

But if they were my friends I’d simply say, “Oh God this is terrible. Were you sleeping when you cooked this?” And perhaps think of how the meal can be salvaged in any way. We might laugh over my outburst. Or they might feel ashamed and I’d feel terrible about blurting out my thoughts insensitively.

Otherwise I’ll be good natured, swallow the meal without complaint—even commend the cook—and pray I don’t puke before it’s over.

Then I’ll make sure I never eat another meal there again. So help me God.

Word count: 310

Time: 4 minutes

The Rules

1. Open a blank document.
2. Set a stopwatch timer to 5 or 10 minutes, whichever length you prefer.
3. Your topic is at the foot of this post BUT DO NOT SCROLL DOWN TO SEE IT UNTIL YOU ARE READY WITH YOUR TIMER!!!
4. Once you start writing do not stop until the alarm sounds! Do not cheat by going back and correcting spelling and grammar using spell check (it is only meant for you to reflect on your own control of sensible thought flow and for you to reflect on your ability to write with correct spelling and grammar.)
5. You may or may not pay attention to punctuation or capitals
6. At the end of your post write down the number of words to give an idea of how much you can write within the time Frame.
7. Put the whole document onto your post and nominate 5 others and give them a new topic. Remember to copy paste the rules in!

Nominations:

Target Verified

Tolawrites

A Prompt Reply

Chynanu’s Blog

A burdie from Lahore

Sheedart’s Blog

If you’re reading this and want to partake, please do.

Your Topic:

Tell us about something out of character.

 

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A Long Way Home

I watch the bus make its last turn and come to a halt. The ride may have been a long uncomfortable one, but the early flutters of hope has my heart thumping in anticipation. The streets are full of people—old and young alike; some heaving bags out of boots, welcoming their loved ones with warm hugs; others chatting as they walk past. Rows of shops now replace a long line of familiar trees, sporting pepper soup restaurants with the promise of assorted meat, Continue reading

Flirting With Darkness

                                                     

My blogging friend George over at the Off Key Of Life does this exercise where he plays on the dark-side. The general idea is to get out of your comfort zone and write something different fiction-wise. It seems like a good idea so I’ve decided to give it a shot too. Why did I choose flirting with darkness? Because that’s what it feels like to me lol. Continue reading

When It’s Never Enough

My new friend and I walked down the length of the University’s road in search of an ATM. It’s been less than 30 minutes after feeding on what was no doubt the most decent meal we’ve had in weeks—not decent because we couldn’t find anything to eat all these while, but because we could finally begin to feel the knot in our belly loosen enough to savour the taste of food. We had just written the most important exam of our lives—you could say for now because when the next one comes this will be bumped down to second place. Continue reading

Fifty Shades Of Whatever You Like

Man has three lives: one shared with the world, another known to the inner ring, and a third between himself and his maker. The first is the politically correct being, one that turns away censure, judgment and all things vile; the second is reserved for those we trust, whose lives intersect with ours by virtue of mutual interest and trust; while the third isn’t very agreeable. It’s our secrets hidden in the darkest part of our hearts. It’s our fantasies, our love, our shame, basal desires attracting retribution. Continue reading

A Threefold Lesson  

“Some of our biggest lessons come in beautifully wrapped little packages of experience.” 

Of all her body parts, Mma’s hair held the least appeal. It frizzed, broke and resisted every act of taming irrespective of her efforts. This was a cross, a very surprising cross because for years she had been blessed with beautiful hair—long, soft and admirable. Continue reading

An All Excelling Love

For by grace you have been saved through faith—Ephesians 2:8a

As the day draws to an end, I am again swamped by the boundless, encompassing love the Father has shown to me, the world, in his son Jesus Christ. Continue reading