She Belongs To The Sky

The rain is a battering ram. I left it batter me. Besides I'm already in bits. The sky's tossing huge balls of water, the size of oranges. They hit with an icy chill that is almost soothing, like a distorted massage from an angry masseuse. I'll probably be down with a fierce cold come dawn, but that is as insignificant as polishing the shiny bronze plaque in the living room.  Being in the rain is like holding a butterfly, the flutter of its wings like a small tempest–smaller and safer than the tsunami that hit me when Chimamanda came, and the swirl of crudely formed emotions that raged when she left me. Far more safe.  I don't run from the rain when it accosts me in the middle of the street. It has long become an old friend, a balm that soothes the monsters in my head. An outlet. A rare chance to escape.  It is also because the rain is like her. Wild, vivacious and kind. I like to think that if i just closed my eyes long enough i would see her,

I have a small voice in my head.I don't remember when it came, i don't even remember when it wasn't there.I call it—him: Deziri. I think he's a braver version of me. Stronger, reckless, free-r, more daring. And right now, Deziri is telling me, very brazenly–in the house of the Lord, to smack this lady.I almost oblige him, and her.One more. One more nudge, and i will smack this paparika-faced woman into the heavens. She has small chinese-y eyes inlaid on skin the colour of icheku fruit pods. Her gown, a blue-black stripped bodice is cinched at its waist in smooth ripples of three's. The bald man beside her could be her husband. She started it when the church rose for ' high praise', it being intentionally  quacking and nudging me, probably to force me to dance."Because you won't dance." a small thought says in my head.I ignore him and hold my ground.She quacks me again, th

The place is huge, like a colloseum or a battle field enclosed in a wall of brick. It is bursting with trees and plants. Two guavas stand guard at its entrance like gnarled sentinels of bark and green, pink hibiscuses and purple heart plants line the hedges at the wall of each block in a carefully tended array. There is an unending field of trimmed grass and two building stand adjacent to each other; both are stories high,  almost blocking out the rays of the sun. It is a world of its own, completely divergent from the one beyond its walls.The school co-ordinator is a short plump woman,with conspicuous strands of grey in her bun and a face with more edges than a decagon. She looks like the kind of person that will switch into her language the moment a phone call comes, the type that will make exaggerated expressions and funny sounds egging the speaker on the other side of the line to go on with the story. I like her, instinctively, because she does not give Dad one of t

When Ernest hemingway said: There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. He was right. He was absolutely right. My music box is up to its highest volume, blasting J.cole, the soft tune of his for your eyes only caresses my eardrums. It shuts out the real noise—silence that is so silent it's loud and eerie.I write better like this, with songs in my ear and bass pulsing through my room. But today not even J.cole can save me. My jotter lies in front of me, its pages are a stark alabaster under the fluorescent practically begging me to tattoo poetic genius on its skin. Trust me, I would love to. There is only one tiny-pinky sized problem. I can't think of anything. Not a single word.  I pull myself back into my body and start the hunt for inspiration. My room smells like tea and perfume. A heady aromatic fragrance that fits perfectly to the cool beige paint, i'm still tr

 It's the boy from church, i can swear my life on it. I don't know how i didn't notice on the first day. It's his red skin and girly eyes– i'll recognise them anywhere. He fidgets, taking it out on his pen, caressing its glassy surface and scrutinizing it with more intensity than an Avanti pen should be made to endure.I had to leave my safe seat at the door when it became too unsafe for my liking a.k.a boys are hoes. This huge-boy (i think his name is Dike) with thick lips too red for his dark skin made it his sacred duty to pester my life. I don't know why boys don't seem to get the memo, but there's a fine line between flirting and harassment.Boy-girl's put every ounce of effort in his body into not looking at me, his eyes are everywhere, the windowsill, the marker board, the desk's plane, the glossy daylight swimming about in rays–anything but me. I didn't see that one coming.But i guess it's