Thursday, 9 August 2012

Our Wall-unit!!
You know the things that remain attached to your family for long;
well, we had a piece of antic that had a place in our child hood.
it was placed in the family's sanctuary, 'the living room'
The 'living room' had no attractive paint work and no pictures at all.
Nothing artistic was on display.
the walls were unprofessionally painted in white
three sofas surrounded a bluish structure which seemed like a coffee table
facing the big spacious sofa was the work of a Carpenter;
It was a Wall unit that had been well crafted in fine pine and gloss furnish.
It housed a 14' international TV set in one of its closures
On a glass plane display was fine Chinese and English ceramic products.
Each compartment was like an alter for placing a sacrifice.
It was a sanctuary for Valuables.
Mum's Panasonic radio and various local gospel tapes had their niche.
I remember getting a whooping for messing with one of her favorite tapes.
Before i forget, there was an important item which occupied the compartment beside the TV
A brown King James translation Bible.
This was a present from uncle-Japheth to my Dad.
The golden pages had long faded and its genuine brown leather cover had wrinkles.
This book was familiar to us all....
We read it carefully, earnestly and lovingly.
Within its pages was the fountain of truth and life.
I remember the nights we used to spend reading it during our family devotion.
Among other items in the wall unit was our family Album;
Dolls from Disneyland were placed 'artistically',
I remember the contribution of my stickers to the overall 'artistic' look.
The wall unit was our epitome for artistic collection.
I miss those days!!!

Friday, 3 August 2012

When the rain began hitting me...!!

My writing may not be all that but am grateful that at least I can express myself. I have never written for any news paper or magazine except a campus magazine which never got published. My frustrations as a writer remains untold though thoroughly inscribed in the pages of my note book as my meditations. Soon I realized that this were not even meditations they qualified to be poetry.
Like every writer would do, I spent countless of hours between the pages of my notebook trying to grill my writings. I was my own critic…”that doesn’t make sense I told myself.”  My room had become my closet where I hide and kept to myself trying to look for apt expressions. I would at times spend time late in the night scribbling in my Kasuku notebook with frustrations from unexpressed ideas and thoughts. I would write all I can and then feel empty and void.

My asylum was my own self I drifted from prose and got lost in poetry. I wrote poetry and recited to an imaginary audience. I could hear the audience applaud to my poetic vibe… ladies would go like…aaww and some screamed on top of their voices. At times i would get booed out of the stage and then my world would tumble down on me. It’s not real I would whisper to my conscious. For a moment I thought i was in captivity like St. Paul. And so my only obligation was to write and never let even the slightest idea fade away unwritten.

It was at 1am in my semi-dark room that I pledge my allegiance to my imaginary audience. Into the world of poetry I dug deeper, deeper and deeper I buried my self.