Picture by Charles Nyiha

How do we let go of that which we let kill us? How do we let go of our chosen deaths? How do we react when the thief refuses to rob us? What about when the tears keep lying to us that they have stopped?


I look at my hands, empty. I try to give myself love, care. I try to touch my chin, lift it up and say, hey. I pull my knees to my chest and breathe into them. I dream of tea farms and cool rivers and many, many trees. I stretch my fingers before me. Promise. Peace. Pain.

Mtoto akililia wembe mpe.

When the child cries for the razor blade, give it to him.

I am not granted any razor blades, this is life. I am asked to stop looking into the eyes of a man for calm, to find existence outside the walls of him. But my joy still is for him, my laugh just loud enough for his hearing. It is a battle of who can be happy most. I am the only one fighting.

What does freedom feel like?

I remove my coat in an attempt at nakedness, show the windows and the air and the grass my body; perhaps my  secrets, and do not avert my eyes, a kind of acceptance of fact.

I say, maybe this might be something. 

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