When You Touched Me (Poem)

Though I suck when it comes to keeping in touch

Recurrent thoughts of you invade my mind so much
Remember that touch of your hand on my bare skin?
Well, the corollary is intense, as from your touch I still spin 

Hiatus, When Realities Hate Us (Poem)

Must be an abyss, that in which tonight I fall

Wounds gushing blood, as yet again I fail
For many suns and moons now, attempting to call
With dreary exertions but to no avail
Reduced I am, shrunken to a cringing, wizened poetaster
When met only with the dissonant voicemail
A nimrod, I may seem to be, or perhaps a scathed protester
Must be my uncouthness that augured this toil and moil   
Now here we are in a mournful hiatus
My taciturnity has caused, ergo, a seismic disturbance
Cui bono now, darling, when realities hate us?
Today well-nigh impossible to sip even a pint of your utterance
To whom shall I avow my sincere feelings in this grim hiatus?
As now I meet, in total defeat, my eventual quietus 

Cloud Nine: A Couple of Peasant Eyes in the Air (Draft 2)

In my growing up, I learnt that aeroplanes, or flying machines as we used to call them, were also modes of transport. It seemed, however, a mode of transport that some of us could only envision in our dreams. A thought of flying was almost an unrealistic, somewhat quixotic notion. But the very thought conjured wild fantasies in us, especially me. We’d watch with gratification as aeroplanes passed by. It was what we called a ‘spitfire’ which amused us the most. This aircraft seemed to fly higher than others, and so it looked very tiny, like a silver swallow against the wide blue of the sky. The ‘spitfire’ always left a trail of white smoke hanging in the sky. Somehow these machines seemed to fly only when the sky was cloudless. It was even more exhilarating to sit down, long after the plane had disappeared out of our vision, and watch the smoke as it slowly dissipated. Even to this day, I have no idea what that plane was, or why it emitted smoke, or whatever it was that appeared like smoke in our eyes. As kids we made paper planes and jubilantly threw them in the air. He whose plane balanced well airborne and flew longer was the captain to be credited. I was an expert in paper planes – the almost always credited captain.

Years went by and I transitioned from a boy to an adult – a metamorphosis that continues to make me glance back down memory lane. Still, I had not travelled by air. In fact, I had never considered doing so. Although as an adult I understood planes better and heard stories about soaring in the air, flying just wasn’t my thing. But I did envy people who flew, yet I couldn’t imagine myself inside of an aeroplane. Then one day it happened – with a blend of two potent feelings - fear and excitement. But it happened. Out of sheer luck I must confess… I was randomly picked and sent on an official duty far off at the capital city. When my superiors informed me that I’d be flying, I was stunned. A blend of two potent feelings - fear and excitement - swirled in me.

That morning I didn’t eat anything. Not even the previous night. I had to starve myself for my own good. I’ve heard stories about people puking all over themselves aboard aircrafts. I regard myself a gentleman. And gentlemen don’t vomit inside aeroplanes. That’d be the worst way to lose face.

Hungry as I was, I went to the airport. I was two hours earlier. I didn’t want any chances of missing the flight. But now there was a little problem when I arrived. I wasn’t familiar with the check-in procedures but I joined the line nonetheless. I remembered one of my favourite comedy film characters, Mr. Bean. He always found his way out of difficult situations. The trick was simple – be silent, just watch and do what everyone else does. I followed that advice.
            With Mr. Bean in my mind, things were quite smooth. I watched as my bag was weighed, thrown on a conveyor belt and disappeared behind scenes.  Then, like everyone else, I had to pass through a scanner. I didn’t mind the search and all. But I didn’t quite like it when the security lady requested for my belt and shoes. I felt discomfited as I unbuckled my belt and clasped my trousers in position. Some of us belt for a functional reason.

The plane was smaller than I anticipated. I wedged into a seat by the window and looked around, bracing myself for an odyssey of the year. Though it was a gauche feeling, I felt somewhat like a parvenu - a lowlife thrust in echelons to which he didn’t belong. Many seats were empty. It wasn’t crammed like in buses at the town rank. No one was standing up in the aisle. There were no vendors screaming with bowls of bananas and maize cobs. No shrieking babies and foul-smelling armpits from bodies standing and leaning against your seat. The atmosphere was different – almost alien. Everyone was silent. Then a voice crackled from a speaker concealed somewhere within the plane, breaking the silence in a thousand audible splinters. I nearly jumped out of my skin. Then I fumbled for the seatbelt, following the instructions.

She was beautiful, the lady standing at the far end demonstrating safety measures. So it was true after all? That air hostesses are all good looking. Suddenly the small craft started rolling away, taking me along with it. Nice. It felt like a real bus; well, at least for a little while as it sped on the runway. The voice in the speaker came again, alerting me that we were about to take off. I held on tightly to my armrests, bracing myself for anything that would follow shortly. Air was abundant yet I gulped for more. I felt my intestines stirring as the aircraft ascended, pushing down the tarmac below. This must have been where I was supposed to vomit; I thought and felt proud of myself for being smart. My head swelled and a wave of nausea swept over me. Then suddenly I had eagle eyes. I could see roofs of every building, getting smaller and smaller. A giant snake of the Thamalakane River glimmered down there. Up and up I went.  Trees became blobs of green. Roads turned into line drawings, vehicles into tiny toys that ultimately vanished out of sight. Brown and yellowish shapes patched the landscape like haphazardly thrown pieces of fabric. Though it was a beautiful sight I was seeing, I still wasn’t yet settled.

I looked outside in space and there was a mist– a white smoke all around the plane. Something must have been burning, I thought in a trifle panic. But the insouciance of other passengers made me calm, albeit slightly. There weren’t any fire alarms blaring onboard. I shifted on my seat and held on tight. The mist gave way to yet another vision. Thick masses of white and gray mountains hovered just below me, like giant cotton wool balls. So dazzling I wanted to reach out and scoop out a handful. It was a sea of what looked to me like clouds. There were clouds below me and clouds above me. What a romantic sight! If only my girl and I could live in a place like this. We’d walk on clouds every day. On cloud nine. I smiled, my face pressed against the small windowpane. Gone was the discomfort. I was floating in dreamland.
 

The gorgeous girl came smiling along the aisle, pushing a trolley filled with goodies. She offered me an assortment of snacks and drinks to choose from. How I wished they could do that in buses! Road travelling would be such a wonder. I settled for Coke and a packet of peanuts. I didn’t want anything that would disconcert my stomach.
 

The crackling voice in the speaker, again. I nearly choked on a mouthful of Coke. This time I listened intently as the pilot informed us on a few facts. I learnt that we were about 9 kilometres above the ground. It made sense and I could believe it. What I didn’t slightly believe was the speed at which we were supposedly cruising. It just couldn’t be. I know how speed feels like. I’ve jolted my Volkswagen Golf GTI at an adrenaline-pumping speed of 260km/h. Trees were whooshing past me in a scary blur. Every car that had been ahead of me was suddenly behind and rapidly disappearing in my rear-view mirror. That was real, plausible speed. Now this guy was telling me we were cruising at 700 kilometres per hour, and he expected me to believe him. Truth was, the plane seemed to be dragging at a snails’ pace and at times it looked stationary.

As I was just beginning to enjoy the trip, I was told the aircraft was beginning its descent to Sir Seretse Khama Airport in Gaborone. It was not even an hour since the flight left Maun in a journey of almost a thousand kilometres. By road, the journey stretches for over 10 hours. How then could such a journey be covered in such a short period of time? It was unbelievable.

I felt a sudden wave of queasiness as the plane arched downward. Outside, an aerial view of the city swayed beneath the craft wing. I gripped the armrests and closed my eyes. The Coke and the peanuts in my stomach stirred. The hind, main wheels of the aircraft hit the tarmac of the runway. When the other wheels touched the ground, the plane rolling towards the terminal, I opened my eyes. Indeed I had arrived – safe and sound. I had at last taken a ride in what used to be an unrealistic dream. Contrary to the many stories I had heard about first time flying, I did not experience any embarrassing situations. As I walked to the check out point, I looked up at the clouds and marvelled at the fact that just a few minutes ago; I was hovering above those clouds. It was the fastness and comfort of the journey that appealed to me the most. I found myself looking forward to my return trip. 

Midnight in Winter

It is midnight in the apex of a brutal winter season. City of Gaborone, Botswana.  Temperatures have dropped down many measurements below the zero degrees Celsius mark. Inside apartments, heaters and water geezers are running. Fireplaces are burning and warm blankets are spread over snug beds. Winter can be such comfort.

But outside, there is a man walking the deserted streets of this city. He sneezes and coughs. The howling wind whistles and whips frigid air against his face. He shivers and sniffles. A globule of phlegm is dripping down one of his nostrils. His feet have not felt the comfort of shoes in a very long time. The frozen feet cramp with every step he takes. The zip of the old and tattered denim jacket has malfunctioned. His hands pull at both sides of the jacket for warmth. Little impression is made. Then he spots a man hurrying across the street with a leather-case in his hands. He is walking towards a car parked just a few yards away.

            “Sir, can you help me?” the cold man with cold feet calls out. The man with the leather case glances at him, but does not stop. “It’s cold and I don’t know where to sleep. Is there somewhere you can show me?” the cold man asks.

            The man with the leather-case walks on without looking back again, pretending he cannot hear him. His car beeps. He opens the door and gets inside. The car squeals out of the parking lot. The cold man looks around. He spots a rubbish tank by a dingy streetlamp. A restaurant, he thinks. He totters to the container.

The wind growls. The cold bites.

He peers inside the bin. It is dark inside; the dim light from the streetlamp cannot reach in there. He sticks his hand inside, thinking, ‘there has to be a crump of bread or something in here.’ His hand touches something soft, a wet and sticky substance. He pulls. It is heavy. Cannot come out.  He takes out his hand. The hand is drenched. He lifts it up to the light and examines it. Blood. His hand is covered in blood. A dog barks in the distance. The cold man takes rapid steps backwards, away from the rubbish container.

The wind screams. The cold stings. The cold man sweats. 

Soul Freedom

I’ve walked the streets of our towns and villages. I’ve seen people in different spheres of life. They all have one thing in common. And this is: they are like loose leaves of a tree, blown about in any direction the wind takes them. And like the leaves that have lost the grip of strong branches, these people have nothing to hold on to. Indeed one’s identity is shaped and moulded by that which surrounds one – be it in the physical or any other realms. We live in sundry societies, polyglot communities and multi-diverse vicinities. We live in heavily materialistic societies. Growing up in such circumstances begets personalities that almost always clash with the soul and spirit of the bearer. But all these seemingly inevitable transformations are a result of the material-ness of our being, of the world in which we live. We’ve lost identity with our core selves, which is the soul that drives these bones and fleshes. In fact, we do not even know of the existence of such a spirit within us. Or if we know, we take it lightly, for granted. Since we’ve been numbed by what our bodies falsely take as pleasures, we do not feel our souls, we do not connect with our souls and as a result, we do not nurture our souls. We live for our bodies, not knowing that our bodies are but only temporary and corporeal houses within which an eternal self lives. We do not know that these very bodies that we live for, will, someday, sooner or later, succumb and the soul will transmigrate to yet another body about which we have no knowledge. Our bodies have become soul prisons, living blindly in a prison world. No physical shackles and chains for slaves. Today’s slavery is more severe because it targets and victimizes not the body but the intricate core being of the self. Freedom, in this material world, is an illusion.

Rain Lovers

Happenstance it certainly cannot be that we meet again in the rain. Not only do we always meet when it rains. We meet in the rain, all the time. This rain, today’s rain, summoned our ever venerated union – a union of our arch-personalities. And so here we stand, amid a fusillade of frigid waters from high up above. A trillion drops wash over us. Drenched we are. Our bodies shudder from the cold it endures, yet inside of us, a glowing warmth emanates. The waters cannot drown us because we are no bêtes noires of this rain. The gurgling streams are but pure ululation – a celebration of you and I, of us. What else could they limn? Surely this rain loves you. It loves me too. Otherwise how could it be so effusive in its praise of our meagre presence? I look into your eyes and I see not the rain but that which pulled you to this place. That’s a much cherished thing for it also brought me here. And we love it here in our sacred quasi-heaven.  Could this rain be a cryptogram of some sort? What is it betokening? When anyone asks, let’s tell them we’ve been betrothed in the rain. Now, come close, my rain love and let’s dance in the rain. 

Letters from the Dead

The deserted lone shack stands forlornly amid a dense jungle of old, dry and gnarled mophane trees.  A thick, almost physical silence hangs in the air. High shrieks of sparrows throw an occasional ostinato of dissonant notes across the air. A trifle shudder creeps through my flesh.  Suddenly the environment feels and looks spooky.  The wooden shack and the gloomy trees are all weather-beaten, like relics from an old time in history. It’s been many, many years since I’ve last come here. It doesn’t look like my place anymore. It doesn’t look like what used to be my resort.

I step towards the structure, my boots snapping brittle twigs.  I jump at the somewhat amplified sound of keys jingling as I scoop them from my pocket.  They echo like graveyard chimes. Almost cautiously, I turn the key, hearing the rusted mechanism unlatching. The door squeals open. A network of cobwebs criss-crosses the interior of the shack, glimmering from the dingy light that squeezes in through the tiny window at the back. A spine-chilling chorus of squeaking sounds is followed quickly by a flutter of wings flapping. I duck as a swarm of bats scurry over my head and out through the door into the woods.  My heart races. The back of my hand wipes perspiration off my brow. Steady yourself, man! A voice whips through my mind. The hell are you afraid of? This is your house.

I walk through the cobwebs into my house, wooden floor creaking. There’s a smell of mildew and mould and bat droppings. I look around. The walls are papered with copies of poems and songs I wrote years ago, on which many generations of flies have interpolated new notes. My first acoustic guitar still hangs at the corner, right where I had left it, but now caged in spider webs, strings dangling. The guitar is solemn. I walk towards the desk and around it to the rocking chair I had once upon a time cherished. Slowly and cautiously I wedge myself into the chair, suspecting it might break under my weight. It doesn’t. And I’m glad. The notepads and the pencils are still there on the desk – a sign that no one had ever stepped in here since my last visit; that no one had tampered with my beautiful writing resort. How come they didn’t give it away after my burial? They gave away everything. Oh yes, I remember. It’s because of the will. I stated it in my will. I open one of the notepads. The once clean-white papers have turned rusty brown. I pick the pencil and start inditing verses. Letters from the dead.  Will they ever believe?  The living. Will they ever believe my story?

Extract from my short story ‘Letters from the Dead’.

A Bibliophile in My Class!

It’s 0845 and I’m moving around in a senior class of high school learners, checking on their individual work.  It’s an art lesson. And I’m an art teacher. All are engrossed, pencils sketching on paper, paint brushes pouring hues on canvasses, fingers weaving small basket bases. Then I spot a boy sitting at the far edge of the classroom, tie askew and eyes cast downwards. I’m about to ask him to fix his tie but I notice that the paper on his desk is clean white, not a pencil mark on it. The pencil is lying neglected on the paper. Certainly the boy is not working. But he is concentrating on something as his eyes are cast downwards on his lap. I can tell by the look on his face that the boy is far, far off. Could he be texting on a cell-phone or playing cell-phone games? Maybe Facebooking! That would be like a daredevil challenge. But his hands are still and there isn’t much fascination that one would expect to see on the face of a juvenile delighted by the thrills of a digital game.

“Hey you! Young boy!” I shout across the room. The boy’s head jerks up and he looks at me with eyes flashing with panic. “What’s there under your table on your lap?” I ask, taking brisk steps towards him, lest he tries to hide that thing which has kept him from working.

‘It’s nothing, Sir.” He says, eyebrows rising. Lies, lies, lies.

Silly answer, I think, though I don’t say it out loud. Students don’t ever seem to learn that we teachers almost always know how they are going to answer to posed questions.

“What do you mean by ‘nothing’?” I ask.  I’m hoping the frown that I’m pulling on my face is showing. At home I’ve tried practicing frown-pulling in front of the mirror but the effect wasn’t very impressive. I’ve seen men who can pull a fear inducing frown that makes the flesh between their brows suddenly look like folds on an elephant skin. But I know that mine is way too mild, yet I pull it nonetheless. Judging by the boy’s nonchalance, I can tell my frown doesn’t have much effect. I’m now at his desk and my hand reaches under the table. Instead of a cell-phone, what comes out is a novel. I look at the cover. Sidney Sheldon. The Doomsday Conspiracy.  I look at the boy’s face.

“I’m sorry Sir,” he says. “I really have to finish this book. If I don’t finish it, I won’t be able to do anything else.”

“What do you mean you won’t be able to do anything else?” But somehow I know the answer. I know what the boy means. And not only do I know, I understand.

“You won’t understand, Sir. I can’t put this book down.” He sounds very honest and I’m touched. I’m touched by I try hard not to show it. I look at the book again and remember that I too became a bibliophile at the boy’s age. At his stage in life, I had consumed almost the entire school library. I look at the book again and I shake my head. I feel sorry for him because he is reading a very addictive author. I contemplate confiscating the book. I look at the boy, very worried for him.

“Fix your tie,” I say to him.