Tag: Creative writing
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Filthy, bloody hands
wolves hide in beautiful sheep clothingigniting senseless wars in the Name of God How dare you stain the Holy Name of God with your filthy, bloody hands? God does not hire anyone to fight His battlesHe has an innumerable army of angels at His command His pleasure is to see brothers and sisters live in…
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He is risen -Happy Easter!
never heard of a lambthat served as a lampguiding the feet of men and of women off the paths of hell the prophets of old did predictthat his death will reverse the evil verdictsin has brought upon usif the promise of eternal life were a lieHe would not riseand our faith would be in vainand…
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fishing in new waters
Flies. They wouldn’t let the sores of a dog be. And the poor dog is forced to stay in motion to ward them off, all along jerking, flicking, tossing its head -all the frantic head shakes its creative mind could conjure. And yet, the savage flies pursue with renewed sadistic zeal. The dog stops and…
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they’ll see you rise
like the sun they’ll see you risethe fake, foes and fraudsters who sawyou weep, crawl and beg will falltheir faces abraded likemetal gods scrubbed with wire gauze here, no vest is bulletproofjust bodies taking in bulletstill they feel tipsy and staggeran unsettling truthmakes the most vocal stutter but this is the furnace in which the…
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Refuse to bend
life wields a set of unfortunate incidents into a powerful anvil against which I am being struck the strikes are persistent and slow, draining me of every urge to hold on the clinical, persistent strikes linger, my resilience is a palpable mass of bleeding mess It pays to be patientbut patience is difficult to masterrequires…
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We always smell it from afar
Back then, we knew nothing about sexual harassment. All we knew was that teacher Musah loved Mansa and we all envied her whenever she walked about the school head high like a princess. Many ugly girls in the school winced at the thought of not having half her beauty. That Mansa was a minor, we…
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Red wine
For me, red wine is symbolic of pleasant memories. It was a windy Sunday afternoon in late December. I did not go to church that day. My habit whenever I didn’t have money for offertory. Or felt guilty of a secret sin. Feeling bored, I lay in my room on my little mattress spread on…
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Default mode
when the path ahead is shrouded in fogsome resort to motivation woven into songsor written on wallsto help calm their fearsfor us, inspirationis written on our genesLike instincts written into the minds of insectsnever-giving up is our default modeworking in silence the codeeven when we’re brokewe’re still paying the price of victory
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Noise
She keeps talking and distracting my thoughts, and doesn’t seem to notice the cues I keep dropping to indicate it’s not a good time for chitchat. My approach has always been indirect when it comes to telling people things they won’t be comfortable hearing. But in my mind, the message sits there, in its crude…
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While it rained
It was raining heavily. I sat on the floor, my back against the bed, staring through the open window at the palm fronds swaying in the strong winds. The room still had a bit of the afternoon warmth, which was yet to give way to the cold outside. I thought of my flatmate who was…
Diary of a Wanderer 