Saw a bird

I saw a bird today

It uttered words of the hope of the King.

Also of turmoil and of dismay.

I listened, hoping on what next it would bring


Kings like David,

It foretold of their glory.

Of his perfect story,

To be marred by sins too avid.


It also spoke of King Solomon,

The wisest man who will ever traverse the earth.

His question was but one that will be common,

T’was for his wisdom not to dearth.


He talked of the King of kings, sitting on the throne.

Of his splendour and mercy and majesty.

The sacrifice for my life’s amnesty,

For me not to be a sin’s drone.


He spoke more still, of the King who made the kings.

With eyes casting shadows into the distance

Its beak moved with ferocity as its words escaped like fire rings,

That would consume future hearts, leaving behind a dark substance.


“When?” I began to ask.

I guessed the question to be a heavy task.

For the bird fluttered away,

Telling me not the day, nor the hour of Judgement day.



















Tapping her foot on the hair…

Tapping her foot on the hair-covered ground she tried not to bite of his head. “I’ll show you”, he breathed. As naive as a three-year old she accepted this notion and proceeded to await his promise to come to pass. the focus of her eyes faded off into the distance as she rotated the ring on her ring finger. Her thoughts swum backwards through the years- a fairly short swim- to when it all begun.

He had stood there beside her as the moonlight waltzed witlessly to an unheard orchestra on the glassy surface of his gelled back hair. The moon stood high that night, surrounded by a fleet of puffy clouds that basked in its stolen light. The moon, however, was focusing all its attention on him, seeming somehow to worship and even bow down to him. Oblivious of how he looked, his words bounced out of his mouth like basketballs on a court but landed like feathered cushions in the air, somehow drifted their way to her heart. The heart he had stolen.

The clock chimed. The image that had been conjured up by her mind disappeared with a click, like a television pulled out of it’s socket.

Letting out a sigh, she reached for a magazine and began flipping through it aimlessly like a vagabond on the street. She grimaced at what was keeping him occupied, shooting lethal daggers at that being. “Surely getting a beard trimmed FOR YOU can’t take that long”, she spat under her breath. Beneath her stone cold expression the anger seethed and simmered like a volcano that was tired of being dormant.

As yet another page whizzed by, her eyes were enticed by its deep dark unfathomable color. Upon reeling back, her face drew into itself creating neat folds of skin above her hazel tinted eyes. The man in the pin stripe legal blue suit, gavel in hand accompanied by a beaming smile drowned her mercilessly in her memory of that night.

He had worn a similar suit that hugged him snugly, enough for her to see the prolific features of the rainy days in the gym. His hair that day reassembled the ocean on a calm summer day as he ran his hand through it and it emerged leaving not a hair out of its place. Her eyes caught the shimmer of the impeccable Rolex watch he always wore, and continued to follow it until it brushed fleetingly past his left pocket that seemed to bulge oddly that day.  He raised his hand up in mid-air, palm facing the ceiling,  and his eyes locked with hers for but a waning moment. His eyes, full of vitality yet a mirror to a world of mystery, danced at the corners. He fell to one knee as the world around – like water whirling its way down the drain- seemed to vanish into thin air.

Yet again, the world like a pin popped her reminiscing bubble.

He was almost done, maybe then she could see who she really needed to see.  Her hopes escalated sky-high as soon as she saw the barber retract his hair-hungry device. It was like a pin to a red balloon when the razor relapsed back the subject’s face like the mere affinity for hair was too great to overcome. Her emotions now flared like the fire that flares from a mother dragon’s mouth. She proceeded in her futile attempts to tame that roaring feeling inside by she tried to read the next line in the magazine – that she should have been engrossed in – as she “patiently” waited. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.  Her feet had caught onto the ferocious ambiance created by that MAN! She crossed one leg over the other…… TAP……….TAP…………………TAP.  Managing to at least drop their tempo, she sighed exasperatedly.

She had no choice but to wait patiently on that … that! After all he was the only one who knew where to find her husband. Her entire body slumped, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, after this realization.




The Pauper’s Dress

She dance – the Paupers dance;

In a whirlwind of colour,  hypnotising her victims.

She spins and twirls;

Her dress matching her, move for move.



The crowd bursts into cheers.

They sing, shout, and follow her in her wake.

They are zombies heading to a slaughter house;

The gallow will be their garland.



She is halfway through her turn,

Like a ballerina, she pauses…

For a second… she contemplates suicide.

The crowd goes on cheering.



Her turn is almost complete,

The crowd is silenced.

She  faces them head on.

All the while her feet are an enigma,

Moving to the sound of silence.



Coaxing her head sideways… she smiles the devil’s smile;

Reveling in every bit of the ash-stricken faces dedicated to her.

“Who are you ?” What do you want from us ?

The questions reverberated from lips marred with fear.



She smile widely.

The could not see it.

She smiled her widest.

They saw nothing.



“W-h-h-ho are you? ”

She began to twirl again,A7LrPHxCQAESnTN

In a torrent of anguish- dark, cold, forbidden.

Stopping, she faced the trembling crowd;

Her faceless face beckoned them to ask again.

Like a broken record, she dared them to ask the questions nobody ever asked.



Just as their mouths opened,

Their eyes opened.

And they saw themselves

Twirling in the Pauper’s dress.


Horror on memory lane.

Walking through the vast expanse of dry sand, the wind thought it amusing to blow in a fashion imitating a pacing man. As I tried to get my hair to listen to me and not the wind, I craned my neck forward with hands over my eyes I tried to make out the figure approaching me. It floated gracefully through the wafts of wind.  The dress, unlike mine grazed the ground beneath her as though she was an angel sent from the firmaments.

The wind now blew forward causing her dress to cling to an hourglass figure on bulky legs. She raised a toothpick- like hand and waved. I was frozen dead in my tracks. Did I know her? Upon more squinting and hair battling, I saw a plate-round face mapped with feather like features crowned with a nose whose brother seemed to be the knife.

Familiarity immersed me like a tsunami would immerse an entire town. At that moment I could feel my stomach threatening to reveal my last meal. She was me.

My face must have revealed bibles about my thoughts because, with the strength of a god, she seized my right hand and began trudging me back the way she had come.  She strutted through her part of town as I cowered and reeled backward as mocking grins and disdainful words were thrown at me. I thought I had but forgotten this memory. On man in particular was the crème del la crème of that memory. His head stood above all the rest, his grin caused the married to have second thoughts and his candour held my heart captive when was not directed at me.  In a brutal, unforgiving, cruel argument he preyed on my legs. The entire crowed roared with laughter. Humiliated, shattered and torn, with my head hung low and tears streaming inconspicuously down my face, I wobbled away like a boxer who had been through his last fight.

Collapsing like a sack of potatoes on the dirt trodden path, she picked me up and like a trophy held me above her head –strutting through the street. I felt like Jesus on the cross – rejected and neglected.

Barely making it out of memory lane, trailing on all fours, I resembled a domestic abuse case. My face was battered, beaten and bruised.

The shackles on my feet promised, “You’re not free of us yet”.

My claws dug into the earth caked ground – wishing, wanting- to stay root there like an ancient oak tree, as the memories pulled me back by my hind legs. It started again.


Alert: Border Grumpie! – Long Walk To FREEDOM

Rainbow colored children bounded elastically up the steps leading to the counter standing in their way to freedom. The damp, dark, dreary prison was already forgotten- school was already forgotten. The queue to freedom snaked its way a mile out of the building. The children in the line fiddled with their release papers, as smiles could be seen pasted in the midst of trillions of conversations. As time grew longer the exalted faces and animated conversations involving wildly gesticulating actions slowly, like the sun sets, transformed themselves into weary smiles and tiresome movements that conveyed nothing but the shear fatigue of waiting. This was the state of those children who made up the snake’s tail.

The children in the snakes head were truly vulnerable to its bite.  She sneered; hissed and spat at them, leaving them in no doubt that the escape from prison would best the stay they had just finished enduring. Her eyes, like that of a hawk, scanned every document, compared it to the tediously long, newly amended requirements and almost always found a fault in a sea of impeccability.

My turn drew near. As the line mimed the agonizing speed of a slug, my mind decide to follow is Usain Bolt’s footsteps as it churned out all the worst possible situations. My head was an overheated machine, producing oceans of perspiration. Two people were ahead of me. My heart stumbled. The clock went “tick-tok, tick-tok, tick-tok” implicitly saying that my time was growing closer with its every movement.

“I was young, I had youthful skin and worst of all I hadn’t even begun to plan my wedding!” screeched my brain.

I was at the counter.

“G-g-g-good morning “, I stuttered.

Her facial muscles cringed and coiled forming deep ridges and valleys reeking of dissatisfaction. I felt like an infamous villain -deserving the most gruesome of deaths- and wanted nothing more than to sprint back to prison and double lock the steel bars behind me.

“One, two, three”, she was counting something.

The number of errors? The possible offences committed by my pen?  I felt like a man, clock watching, waiting for a bloody end that he wasn’t even sure existed. My undertaker, hunched over my flourish Victorian writing put on paper, eliminating her fingers one by one like a pre-schooler doing maths. I held my breath. She was on her second hand. Were her toes next?

“Fifteen, sixteen”, she loudly concluded.

She glare at me as the seconds turned to minutes and finally to hours. My palms bleed of perspiration leaving me feeling like I’d just stepped of a merry-go-round while my feet entertained themselves with the notion of buckling forward.

“When are you turning eighteen?” she barked

Falling backwards, with lips quivering and my chattering teeth sending out earthquake-like vibrations throughout my face, I mumbled through the fact that I was already eighteen.

Defeated, her eyes narrowed. She gave my passport the look a mother gives hers son’s murderer and with all her might stamped my passport authorizing my freedom.

I understood what Mandela must have felt – long walk to freedom.