Wasted Ink


When finally the trumpet flares and my eyes freeze in death, so many words I never saw will be lying in a book somewhere. I shudder at this thought. Those words deserve justice if nothing more is not to come forth. That missed word deserves someone who will mull over its meaning and even wonder how he can put it in a sentence like a tailor tries to fit cloth into a patch.

As I walk stealthily among these tall woods of beautiful books, I hate to imagine that somewhere out there lies a book in a shelf, its velvet cover gathering dust and facing an immense risk of being buried beneath it.

I go after those well-tailored words and how they collectively form sentences without whining about their differences. I hate to speak at this moment when I’m busy summoning the madness that allows me to construct a few sentences in an effort to thrust forth this idea lurking in my head. If I dare open it, the demons will disintegrate as the words roll out of my mouth in a soft voice.

The way the machete cuts across the oats throws me into obscurity and I feel a compelling urge to say something but remember just too suddenly that I am in a session. Thinking about books, words, shelves and writers.

My thoughts wander towards the realm of books going for decades without a finger flipping through its pages smelling of aged words. What a waste of precious ink. Isn’t it enough that someone purged himself apart to get the book to that shelf? Is the effort too transparent to be noticed by a single pair of eyes?

When I will be gone, no one will hunch over the humming laptop to hammer out words out of his head with such extravagant fury. The towel around my waist holding on desperately like a book constantly beckons a reader to its alluring pages will be gone, from dust to dust. I will not remember to look for it so we can reminisce the days we’d bang out words without giving a damn about the flow. I know he would smile and remind me of the smell of my balls. I would give him a long face and go back to grieving for those wasted words.


The Word Hunter


The read suffused all the sinuses of longing in him. Its elusive end left a rueful smirk on his face. Everyone who adored literature like he did had challenged him to dig his teeth into the yarn. He despised much hyped stories. In his heart was the quest for the less appreciated stories. According to him, these harbored untouched goldmines. How he loved to be among the few to have savored the toothsome edges of a read long before the mainstream readers knew of its existence. So when they had told him of this one, he was reluctant. Donning a studious affectation especially when he heard of the crispy and snappy sentences he so much relished.

After dismissing the voracious readers openly, he drifted behind them just to have a peak of these sentences. They had known were the middle of his fault lines lay. He searched for it and found it. The opening left him gob smacked. It was the one to die for. Like those tantalizing movie previews that film maker use as bait to lure cinema lovers to troop to cinemas on Saturday afternoons ready to be rocked away.

Satisfied by the opening abetting sentences, he sat to enjoy his repast although writhing from guilt. The words were simple in their complex dignified diction. The rain pattered against the thatch outside thus enhancing the sweetness of the tale. The writer right off the snap kept him on tow. The juicy parts of the narration were drawn out professionally by this man of means in the world of words. Every picture was accorded its rightful description. He could see the rivulets of sweat run down the protagonist’s brow when he was wallowing in acute temperament.

Even when the wind blew from under the gap between the wooden door and the mud floor, he did not feel it gnaw on his toes. The man was evidently lost in the eccentric plot that proved to be his pot of tea. Save Best for Last floated off his gramophone but that only served as a backdrop to the delicacy he was enjoying. After all the woman struggled to be heard in the soft hum of the rain.

Neighbors talked. They openly displayed their inadequacy to understand what he had become. Some said he had been bewitched for being too brilliant. Others, whispering from one person to another, indicted that he had crossed the path of a Kamba woman. Feeling betrayed, the girl had sneaked a Kamutee on those coffee drinks he relished. How else could anyone spent so much in useless pieces of paper?

Temporarily withdrawn from the intriguing tale, he threw a quick glance at the much adored part of the house. Just to be sure that there was no water dripping into his treasures. The wooden shelves stared back. The intricate patterns of the books made his chest rise with bubbles of pride. Those words in their millions spoke to him so much about gratification than all the posh villas and sleek modes of transport they all endeavored to achieve.


Someone once suggested to him that he needed to find a beautiful woman and settle. The man was offended. He fidgeted. Trembled from anger. Walked out without saying a word into a bush to read his books. And emerged hours later gleaming with pleasure. The only voice of a woman he could listen to was those of the well picked characters in the books speaking meaningful things devoid of much overrated affection.

He was not ready to sacrifice his limited time wooing a fellow human being into letting him poke between her thighs. Everything denuding love or anything edging towards the same seemed ridiculous. Apparently, he just could not wrap his head around these mysterious behavior. It was beneath him to accord special treatment to someone just because of…love. He knew they would vociferously fault him for this yet it was clear it all melted down to coitus. Why then would anyone kill the creature he claimed to so much love once he unraveled that he fucked someone who wasn’t him?

Sometimes the snow comes down in June, sometimes the sun goes round the moon, just when I thought our chance had past, you’re going to save the best for last. The song came to a cringing stop and so was his story. Contended, he stared at the strands of soot hanging from the traces and its blackness. Listened to the rain hum on. And then his heart pounding peacefully. The hunt was not going to end. Not in his lifetime.