creative writing, life, personal, prose

You always like to be “Different”.

Shell-shocked, that statement incinerated my world – of skyscrapers, buildings, lights as bright as the sun echoing names of hero, heroines, stars and valiant men, and with streets paved in gold with not a piece of debris in sight. Where once there were yellow perky flowers and crimson rose petals lining the polished marble paths are now shards of blackened glass and singed plastics of a dirty green. In the places where my dreams- like pre-school children- danced on tunes of their own accord is a cold, bitter and merciless wind. The towers that caressed the sky were replaced by mounds of brick and metal weaved together to form a monstrous contortion with jaggered arms.

Within the desolate streets lined with growing dark and dreary nightmares, I searched for answers.

“Was I always trying to be different?”

“Was my entire life – my existence- a façade?”

Turning to my dreams, I found that I was greeted by a cold memory of what once was. My nightmares only mocked and scorned my melancholic state for were only concerned about their own existence. The more I festered and fretted, jerking from one side of the street to the other- walking up and down- the bigger my nightmares seemed to grow.

The seasons, oblivious to the current conundrum, went on with its busy schedule of waking up the sun on time for the day ahead and putting the moon to sleep after a good night’s work.

It was during one of the rants of the nightmares that I realized what I should have uttered in response to that statement.

You see I don’t always like to be Different. I can’t help being different. I was made different and so was everyone else. The striking difference is that everyone else is desperately trying to fit into one person’s mold of “normal”.

Ungluing my face from the ground, I faced the nightmare that was now no more bone protruding through the skin awkwardly but rather a fully fledged healthy beast glowing with unphathamable darkness.

For it took years to nurture, nourish and nurse this beast, it would surely take just as long to reverse to process.








Trading Boards

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Come one come all. The crowd was alive as they poured into the hall (much like milk into a large cake bowl), filling every seat in every aisle. The stage was already preened and pruned for the first act. A yellow hat, a tiny mouse and bunny ears had the early birds of the audience taking their best bets on what awaited them in the minutes to come. Excitement danced on the corners of the eyes of the audience members as the lights were dimmed. The stage light shone on the actors that were born and bred in Bulawayo. From the moment the actors commenced their episode, they had the audience by the neck. Expectations were raised as curious riddles were spoken and further still there was a mounting anticipation as the story was narrated by the mouse. The audience, now on the edge of their seats, backs straight and ears erect (much like the ears of a dog listening for its owner) not wanting to miss a thing. Before the act was over both the youth and those in their golden years were tumbling off their chairs with tears streaming from their eyes from laughter.

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With spirits lifted high the scene changed leaving the audience wondering what could possibly top such a performance. Love, live romance and tragedy all wrapped up in one scene. The audience as silently held hands and fought for the damsel whose relationship was misunderstood by her father. Her love was declared futile by her father. Her fiancé shunned, by her father. The audience clenched their fists. Veins on their foreheads threatened to burst through their skin. His wife; unloved, not cared for, neglected, pleaded – almost on her knees- for things to be as they were. As though he were a close cousin to cold ice, he wouldn’t listen. His heart could not be thawed. The fate of the audience was not a good one; for they were given, as a farewell token : sore hearts and tissues glued to their eyes.

… (to be continued)


Throw or Be Thrown : How To Throw Rubbish into a Bin

Rubbish come in all sizes and shapes as do their former owners. It can be quite daunting for a big high school child to throw paper into the bin, especially given the circumstance that the teacher is in full swing of delivering the message home.  The scenario plays along the lines of “ the teacher gives student material to paste into their book, the student accomplishes the task with fervent energy and then teacher forgets to allow for a class adjournment to throw the waste into the waste paper basket … Most students manage fairly well to hold in the mounting pressure to toss the paper into the bin while the teacher is talking. The pressure mounts to a climax until all the students are on the edge of their chairs, knuckles white from gripping the table in order to restrain themselves and eyes glistening not form the teacher’s powerful message but from the agonizing paces of the clock behind the teacher.

To avoid the torture brought about by the teacher’s mere slip of the mind can be quite simple, especially for a big fellow. Firstly, one needs to identify the victim that needs to be liberated from your desk and into the bin where they belong. Once the paper is identified, the most important, crucial, life-threatening step is initiated. The step that stands between you being thrown out of the class or the paper being successfully thrown into the bin is determining the size of the paper to be thrown away. For big fellows this not something to worry about as large volumes of paper can be smothered in between their thighs, suffocated within their barrel thick hand and occasionally crunched in their mouth without the teacher hearing more than a muffled sound.

For miniscule people however, this step must under no circumstances be taken lightly as these people run the risk of being publicly shamed when the teacher kicks them out of her classroom for “disrupting” the class. Such people must always have a jacket or two at their disposal.  These items of clothing, along with scarves in winter, server the same function as silencers in hand held guns.

For a perfect throw you must make sure that the crunched up paper mirrors a sphere with as many jaggered edges as possible. The razor edges slice though the air allowing the ball of paper to move at light speed towards the bin.

When the grand finale has arrived and the teacher is blaring out the most important statement of the lesson such that she is lost in the trance of her message, the throw can begin.

Arc your back, take in as few breaths as possible and no matter what you do, do not blink as it could rapture the teacher’s hypnotic state.  As the paper is sprung from your hands, simultaneously produce a loud preposterous sneeze or cough so as to draw attention from the prisoner fleeing your hand. The teacher will either glare at you for barbaric-seeming behavior or may offer a sarcastic pleasantry. Either way once the paper is freed from your desk your misery shall not return lest more work needs pasting in your book …




To text or … not.

Fingers twitching, I hold my phone
He is but a touch away,

Yet such will the distance be in the tone

Of his voice, itching for my presence in a way.

In way, I wish I could believe.

This feeling ,like my heartbeat, is all too familiar.

It’s a play performance where, in a swish, a moment we receive.

The ceiling stands still and we become a memorabilia.

But do I miss him?-his personality a raging fire

With his flaws, dismissable like a drop in the ocean.

Or is it to hiss at him that fuels my desire

To open all doors, allowing our hearts to be miscible in rhythmic motion.

My fingers tire of their charade 

of bouncing and tossing from one key to the next.

The message they wire scream at me like a parade!

It goes without announcing or fussing that I still wished him to remain an ex.

life, profession, prose, teacher

The World’s Heartbeat

Most of us- those who are deliberating on a career or have already chosen a career- blacklist being a
Teacher like it is a crime to shovel priceless knowledge into the chambers of the human brain. And

those of us who are teachers suffer at the lashing tongues of those who belittle this profession.

Teachers almost always have to answer the vile question “why did you become a teacher?” that is

spat like the venom from a Black Mamba from innocent mouths of pupils.

Sure, doctors save many lives every day and farmers feed people by the millions. Without the doctor

I would have probably died from Malaria. Without the farmers, you would have most likely been

murdered by Starvation. Furthermore without bankers, who knows if we would even have a cent to

our names?

At the end of the day when the world is healthily snug in their blankets with a full stomach as money

accumulates in the bank, it only makes sense to wonder. To wonder who taught the doctor how to

save and the farmer how to farm and the banker how to count and save? Only too soon, like a wave

of fresh air rushing in on a windy morning, do we realise that it was the teacher. To count the banker

owes his kindergarten school teachers who were the first to make him sing the numbers one to one

hundred- even if he learnt his numbers faster than everyone else. To cure the doctors owe their

noble prizes to their high school teacher beckoning them to study for that biology test comprising of

cell structure- a topic as dreadful as death itself. Last but not least, the farmer owes all his applause

to all his teachers for he learnt to count population, save nutrients across acres and to cure a nation,

a world of Starvation.

In essence teachers are to the world its heart. Just like humans are non-existent without the

pounding heart, the world is non-existent without teaching teachers.