It’s Good that Patriarchy is Losing

It has already lost one of its testicles.

And all its arguments.

And the ground upon which it’s anchored shifting fast, disappearing never to return.

It has no option but to transform and disappear.

Otherwise the days of the remaining testicle are also numbered.

It took millennia to crush and throw away the right testicle into the pit of eternal damnation and rot.

It will take way shorter to disappear the left testicle.

Transform or perish.

Transform or lose everything.

The cave ain’t coming back.

And the title deed?

It’s days are numbered too.

It’s good that patriarchy is losing.

To hell with it.

That Night

That night when we found love from our wounds

The night when our tears birthed hope

Under the yellow moon that gently lit that pond

The pond into which we held and tossed in a pebble together

From one little rupture on the soft silky golden waters

I remember the ripples that formed and spread and enchanted our eyes

How they smoothed our souls and warmed our young bodies

Smiling at us from the center of the pond to the edges

Little, soft, too strong and numerous for the little pond to take in

I remember how our eyes smiled

How our lips met hungrily

And kissed urgently to satiate a waiting of a thousand years

How our bodies heaved and craved for each other

How we desired what we had only heard of but didn’t quite know what it was

I remember how we silently made our vows and prayed about them

Our wounds healed

Our tears inked the love we’d stumbled upon in our guts and hearts and minds

I remember how we held and walked in the night as if to find more secrets

As if leaving a holy site we’d just anointed

It was time to part

I remember the resistance

The wishes

And just like that

Our love and journey together had started

That night I will never forget

When we found love from our wounds

When our tears wedded us

And the yellow moon and still waters of the pond witnessed and smiled

And the ripples the choir that sang and danced and cheered

That night was a special night

That night is special

I miss that night

That night is all we needed

That night is all we had

Keep resting and smiling and dancing

That night is all that matters

In Your Eyes

In your eyes I have seen the universe

Its dazzling brightness and sombre gaze

Its good and its bad

All woven in one

A tidy messy roll

Deep in your eyes I’ve seen the universe

Its threesome of black, white and grey

And soothing music and drunken growls

And caressing whispers and stinging rage

All dripping in one gush

A cocktail of love and hate

Sweet, sour and bitter

Desire and disgust

Hope and despair

Truths and lies

Laughter and sobs

I’ve seen the universe in your eyes

The which I want

And the which I don’t

In these your eyes

I see the universe

But I miss me

– nduko o’matigere –

A hidden reason

On the day he bought a sex toy from a hawker on the street he arrived home happier than usual. He had bought it from the hawker because it was easier. Incognito. Transactional. Cash out. A pleasure you in and homebound.

When he got home that day he was happier than usual. She asked him why he had been unusually jolly that evening. He offered no reason. Just happy. And jolly. Excited. Just like that.

On the day he decided to try the sex toy, it jammed right after he had started. It did not function as promised by the hawker and the packaging. It injured him a bit. Just a bit. All this before

Not a bird. Not a worm

My resistance to tuck in early is directly proportional to my easiness to tuck in until I’m fully sleep satiated. Unless there’s an emergency.

The fear and pain of sometimes having to wake up unnecessarily early because a market designed by slavers said so is something I don’t quite easily get over for a long time. But eventually I forget.

It always feels like I’d lose my mind and the world if I closed my eyes to sleep as early as the market recommends.

It also feels like – and I fear this one – that waking up so early is how people die and let the market win.

Markets can be bullish, yes. But they know nothing about what I know about the pleasures of my sleeping and waking up when I want or need to.

I’m more of friends with sleep that comes late in the night and refuses to leave early until both it and I are on the same page.

I’m neither a bird nor a worm. I’ve all my life resisted mortals who tried this on me. Let birds be birds and worms be worms.

And I’m neither a night person nor a morning person. Such people don’t exist.

The market likes to play many tricks on earthlings. There’s only a moment to retire for sleep and the necessity to not wake up until wakefulness takes over decisively.

i now remember


when this dew dries

and the grass withers

when the chirping of the morning bird stops

and the smoldering morning smoke clears

when the earth dries up and swallows life

and the singing children go quiet in exhaustion

i will remember

the soothing ache of loving

the transient perpetuity of hope

the huddling sullenness of loss

the hesitant urgency in time

the hypnotizing vanity in certainty

the dew is drying

the grass is withering

the chirping of the birds is fading

the smoke clearing

earth is drying taking with it life in urgent gulps

the children stop singing

they snooze off in exhaustion from labor they knew nothing about

i now remember