Literary

Random thoughts with a poetic touch!

Empty Cups

In Anticipation of Coffee: http://www.instagram.com/tchassakamga

In the end, it comes down to one sip. The last drip. The moment you hear the faint drained intolerance to the unsaid bits.

Echos unspoken, crawling behind the smiles — fake. You know they know. You know because you can’t unknow the ‘unuttered’ hate.

But you sip. You can’t spit. Because you know good and bad things come in threes. You know it’s inevitable. Variation is the way of the end, the truth of growth, the price and prize of change.

So you sip. Cold, hot, warm, milk, dark, chocolate. You sip. A blip. A spot. A smudge. You sip.

Because only empty cups get to be filled again.

 

Originally published on our medium publication: Self-ish.

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Who am I?

It’s the parts that you see. And what you don’t see.

It’s the layers.

The lives I’ve lived and those I seek to become.

It’s never what you want, rather, what you have.

I’m only unique because every day, I listen to the silence that tells me who I was and who I must be.

I listen to the silence of my thoughts because it contains more than we fathom.

I’m like you. Different. We all are.

Most choose to be like everyone else and get lost in a sea of carbon hypocrites.

I try, every single day, to be happy. To do what makes me happy. Because I know that when I’m happy, I make others happy.

I try to live in the moment.

I try to improve on who I was yesterday.

I study every day. I learn every day. About me. About man. About the world.

Who am I? I’m a lot of things.

Just like you.

 

Originally published on Self-ish.
Are you on Twitter? Me too!

 

My first ever #spoken word trial is on SoundCloud!

 

1-zi9bczftg5cojqxhgstq6qWhen I read this text in March, I felt like I had to give it life. Even if I didn’t have the technical skills required, I couldn’t help it.
And even when I did, I let it sit in my computer for all this while, gathering digital dust. I feel the time has come for me to let the world know what I can do and to judge me for it.

This is just the beginning. I would love to get your feedback and suggestions.

It is in French. But do not worry, I have another one prepared in English- a text another wonderful Ghanaian blogger wrote.

They are the words of a mother, saying goodbye to her child. Probably because she ( the mother) will be taken away because of the war.

According to the author of this text, it is the image you see that prompted her to write that piece. That she felt connected to the baby.

Credits:
Text: Anne Marie Befoune ( www.twitter.com/befoune) Tu Ne Te Souviendra pas…click to read.
Background Audio: Phenakist – Wasting-my-young-years_instrumental

If you read this, my erstwhile love…

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I found joy in the silence of your kiss-the one you took away.
I found peace in your touch-the one I won’t miss.

I searched my memory for the agony of my loss-your loss.
When our song came on SoundCloud, it spoke fondly to the rivers of my eyes.
I talk to myself now. Just like I used to before you came.
The song is no longer sad, I must admit. You were a fond color.

A hue of sorts.
A friend…of sorts.
My friend.

Were you?
Were you mine?
Were you my friend?

I no longer call. But you stopped first-my loss.
I know I wasn’t wrong this time, you were- our loss?

There is desire in the sheets we shared.
No. Not for you.

A longing…of sorts.
Sometimes I squeeze.
Sometimes I wash.

Last night, I made love to myself: A cup of milk, a movie, a laugh alone.
It featured our favorite actor- I won’t hate him.
I tried. But I like him more than I loved you.

Did you?
Did you love?
Did you love me?

I look forward to never seeing you again.
I might smile when I do. Do not be alarmed, it’s my evil plan.

I would hatch a scheme to watch you crawl.
Seize your light and make you fall.

I do not hate you.
Hate is soft.
Hate is weak.
Hate is handicap.

You disgust me.

I will not forget you.
Or your bedroom hymns.

I will not forget the promises I made the day we met.
Nor the rage you left when you sent that text.
I will not forget you, my erstwhile soul mate.
And you should not forget that I loved you.
That I knew your soul and your desires.
The goals you craved and the prize you deserved.

I will not forget the reasons why you smiled.
Or how you blinked when embarrassed behind those balls of wonder I loved to kiss.
Yes, those…I will miss.
Yes, you’re right. I won’t miss.

If you read this, my erstwhile love, I will like to thank you for bringing me closer to myself.
For teaching me what I cannot stand and the desires I cannot condone.

I must thank you for letting me try to be human.
It’s a hard job. One I love taking weekends off for.
Remember: I meant every kiss.
And on this letter, I mean every hiss.

For your own good, let’s never meet again.
You might not recognize the monster you trained.

Blood and Bruises

He ground to a halt.

‘What did you say?’

He’d heard what I said. Even as he turned to look at me in the eyes, I saw his chest rise differently. He said it again. Closing the steps between us. By the time he said ‘say’, I knew about the cabbages he’d eaten for breakfast.

He said you were the youngest in class. And because of that, your opinion didn’t matter. ‘

There was no use mincing the truth. I knew my brother too well. He may have been younger, but I’d fallen victim to his particularly athletic gift one time too many.
And I know better than to coat the chip on his shoulder.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was hot. We all were. The classic leitmotif before Yaoundé’s mocking rains.

What did you tell him? ‘
‘What?’
‘You heard me, big brother. What did you tell him? ‘

He wasn’t looking at my face the first time he asked. But he did again, leaning on the balcony, his back to the city. He was calm. Too calm. I had a feeling he was enjoying this interrogation. He knew I couldn’t escape. His smirk betrayed him.
Then again, knowing who he was, he must have realized there was more to my account. That I wanted to share something he’d enjoy. He was right.

‘How do you think I bruised my knuckles? ‘

His grin, priceless.

—————–
Did you like? Then you might want to head to my Instagram. I take pictures using the LG G4 I got from my buddy Daniel’s startup. Not only does he give amazing advice when it comes to mobile devices, but he’s the most honest technician I know. Disclaimer: I run his Facebook Page.

So…where was I…

Yes! I take pictures and I write very short stories based on them. I intend to make a picture story book out of them or maybe develop some of the stories into a collection. What do you think?

Send me Tweet, picture or a snap!

 

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Daniel- the smartphone genius at work.

How He Killed Affection

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Let him tell you of heartbreaks. Of tears he hid and dreams he killed. Of the memories he replayed long after the kisses died. Let him tell you of rejection. Of unrequited love. Of emotions suppressed and denials endured. He could tell you of the time when she said: “This is not working out.” Or of when she needed space to think. He will tell you with a smile. While you hold your throaty lump tight. He will tell you the blouse she wore and the dog that strayed. He might tell you of the date. If you’re not lucky enough, he may only remember the hour and the minute.

Let him tell you of failures of the heart. Of the laughs he faked and the lies he told himself. Of the persona he forged and the mechanisms he acquired. He may tell you of the letter he wrote…and burned. He may tell you of the unsent SMS, or the cancelled voice note. He could recount the old pillows that saved his teary tale in cold, liquid embrace. He will tell you of the body weight he hasn’t been able to gain. Of his incessant penchant for jokes and laughter, of his book drug abuse and his writing exorcism.

He may mention his new resolve. His understanding of love and the day he killed affection. He could paint the clouds, but he won’t. He could tell you about the song on Trace at that moment, but he won’t. He could tell you of the matching shoes she wore and of the speech she had prepared. Yes, the speech, he will. He will tell you how at that time it made no sense to him. How he laughed with his boys and texted the next available glass heart. He will not tell you of the supper he left cold. Of the desires he left enflaming. Of the rage he carried, chiefly against fiction, for making him believe in soulmates.

Let him tell you of the decision he took. Of the vow he made. Of the smile he wore as he said to himself: I’m too old for this shit. As he deleted the pictures and edited his memory- a task he would tell you, was a waste of time, but that “I had to at least try”. He may mention that it was the day he realized he’d changed. The day he saw his own worth. The day he finally admitted to himself that he would never find what his was looking for, simply because he was always looking.
It was the day he said, earnestly, without reserve and believing with his soul: fuck this shit. I’m done.
——-

What a comeback post huh? Did you miss me? 😀

Merci. #Poème

Parce-que la valeur de ton temps m’est précieux.

Parce-que tu m’a donné le sourire quand j’ai fermé mes yeux.

Parce-que avec toi, vivre sur terre se  compare à vivre dans les cieux.

Parce-que notre amitié durera jusqu’à ce qu’on sera des vielles et vieux.

Parce-que sans tes commentaires mon cœur se fait un creux.

Et parce-que le monde entier à besoin de nous pour ce rappeller que oui, nous aussi, on peut s’occuper d’eux.

Cher ami(e), mes meilleures vœux.

She Owns Me #Poetry

I’ve written books with my eyes.
In my tales, you run me.
I am your formata- share of source and being.
Springs of sadness reek panic when you leave my side.
Mountains crash, Pompeii burns anew.
It’s the neoslavery you inflict deep, within.

You’re a curse. My curse.
You suave, savage witch,
Your fingers dipping my entrails; laying my essence bare.
I hate how my mind adores your savagery.
How your smile becomes my drug,
I am addicted, to your words, your touch, your mind bogging aura.
Who are you?

Why are you?
What do you want with my heart?
Why did you choose me to lay me to waste away from your waist, after an ethereal…taste?
Conquered and alone, I long for a graceful whif of your presence.
An innocent “I love you” whispered in my mind, changed everything.
Subdued. Imbued. Amused…by your ease, a regal feast of tact.

You own me, my love.
And there is nothing I can do about it.

The Alter Boy Who Panicked #Poetry

Not long ago, in a church yonder,
A suave neighbor swept Martha.
I was there, I watched from the altar.
The Mass went on, and me, being a server, couldn’t falter.

They giggled and wiggled during the sermon.
The itch in my throat grew strong.
An attempt to clear felt wrong.
Even the priest seemed worried. It showed in his stare, long.

Mother had warned me of love come fast.
In the age of twitter”, she said, “these things do not last”.
I could feel her eyes on my skull as I stared into the crowd aghast.

The burden of loss is never a light one.
To ponder alone at the time all was fun.
When I thought my Martha was my only one.
Even against my mother’s wishes, I’d promised her we’d run.

When mass ended. I rushed to clear my robe.
The crowd moved slow-a well played joke.
I found Martha crossing the road with the bloke.
I screamed and cursed at the heavenly poke.

Now, here’s the real joke, that was Martha’s long gone cousin who just came back from four years out of the country.

She was so excited she literally burned all her home including the pantry.

When I found out, I rushed in tears and reached her home panting.

She took me into her arms and said those words I needed to hear: It’s okay boo boo, I am not angry.