Give me back my breath

Because i want to live again

Untangle my feet from all these knots of death

For i want to walk out of this pain

Bring me back to the top of my castle

I do not like the view through this foggy pane

Feed me words that nourish my diminishing creative muscle

Because i can feel my energy wane

And when i wade through the dark

You will hear my words reverberate through the woods like a wild dog bark.



The Knock Part 2


Josephine rises and flings the door open. My chest rises with anticipation. I sit ready to rush to him and wail until he carries me to our bed and lulls me into sleep. The knocker is hesitant. Maybe Brent is careful now that he has heard the news doing rounds. Then Richard pokes his purple face in then the whole of his body. Relief like loose soil in the heavy rain erodes away. He quickly reads it on my face and apologizes as if that would transform him into my Brent.

He parts me on the shoulder from behind the sofa. The posture he carries around signals misfortune. Perhaps he is shriveled by the news of the accident. He gives Josephine a wink. I sit silently. Unable to speak. My throat is dry, my lips are dry and my eyes are dry.

His trousers rips as he squats before me to speak. I don’t ooze empathy just now, I want my Brent. I want his presence. Nothing else. And I tell him so without hesitation. With grief. He stares at me for long, his lips trembling, his eyes are watery and blinking fast. There is a strange hollowness in his stare. His old face is well battered and dark.

When he finally speaks, the world comes to a cringing stop. He gives me the opposite of what I wanted.

“I am so sorry. The doctors say they did all they could.”

I stare at him long after he spoken but do not quite see him. All I see are blurred memories. Something tells me to walk away into that room that has the smell of his presence. It is a lie that they are all saying. Brent is not dead. No he isn’t at all.

The rain water splash softly against the window. Beyond the thin strands of rain water I behold two lovebirds dashing about in the rain.Laughing loudly. The weaver birds are perched on trees watching as the rain falls incessantly. They are all in pairs. Feeling each others’ warmth and savoring the romance ridden moment. Far yonder housetops are covered in mist. They are all stern and defiant. I envy them. They know not of seasons nor times.


The prospect of losing him just now is impossible. It cannot be. Weakness is coming to swallow me whole and I don’t know how to fight. He never taught me that. He only taught me to love and to enjoy the sweetness of protection. He taught me not to fear but I am now horrified. Where are you Brent? Why do you leave now?

Tears roll into my mouth and give me a sour taste that is going to reign in my heart for a very long time. The lemon and lemonade adage is all but a pure lie. How can I live now with the smell of horror haunting my being?

I will weep again when I see his gentle face deep asleep in death. It is in my senses that the long procession of years to come that will be spent without him will be filled with agony. I cross my arms across my chest to cordon them off. For the hate in my heart matches the deep love that I have for him. No man will ever put together these pieces that I can’t gather. In my sleep I will weep again and again until we are both joined in death.

I loved him all times. The beat of my heart whispers of him and his big heart dedicated to loving me. Not the strongest of sparks will ever melt out this coldness in my heart. The heat is frozen with him in death.

Josephine and Richards are standing at the door behind me. They are trying to feel my pain, as they think they should, but all is now lost. It is beyond them to rekindle the candle that lit my way. Josephine is begging me not to whip myself but I am not. His departure is. I will not get over him. I will rock the boat to the shore but the wave will forever keep me away.

Even in the tight embrace, I still feel cold and alone. My sister can no longer give me what I want for she has not. Richards knows well he is well out of question. All he can do is stand at the door, blocking the orange hallway light from pouring into the room with his gigantic frame, and look like he is that shoulder they all talk about. Will he have it for me for the rest of his life? Will he bathe in these tears I can’t hold back?

I am led back to the living room. At least it is warm out there, they say. I sit staring at space as if it holds answers to my questions. Then that knock that has dismembered me over and over today comes on again. My shudder is now confused. My hopes rise hesitantly. Expectations again haunt me. They could have been wrong for that knock resonates with his.

Once that door opens, Brent will walk in and we will all weep out of joy. He will inquire why anyone would want to kill him before his time comes. I will tell him to take me to the bedroom and make love to me. He will do what he does best and tear me apart like a tiger. He always does.

The door flies open and it’s not Brent.

It’s not a friend either. Could it be any worse anyway? It is my brother who had been proclaimed dead a year ago just like Brent now. I am confused. Am I to jump in excitement? Will I be able to lift the weight of grief that is upon me?


The Story



Charity woke up with a start. She was panting and wet with sweat. Pitch darkness wrapped her room and she couldn’t look. She tried to recount the dream in her head unsuccessfully. All she could see was a struggle. And darkness. She dismissed these as a mere dream but deep down she was shaken.

After turning the lights on, she checked on her roommate, Faith, lying innocently on the lower deck of the bed unperturbed by the events in the room. Not even the bright glow from the florescent tube hanging from the ceiling. Charity turned to grab the Bible which was resting amply on the table next to her notebook.

She opened the bible diligently. It was as clear to her as the writings in the holy book that she had no particular section to read in mind. Her pastor had always insisted on the revelations brought about by random verses. God conveys His messages that way.

Psalm 34:4; I pray to the Lord, and He answered me. He freed me from all my fears.

And so Charity prayed and went back to sleep feeling much at ease.

Charity understood the power of faith. She believed without questions and trusted on the lord to guide her ways. She devoted her life to worshiping; believing strongly in her heart that all the mercy she had thus came from God. Even when everyone else was claiming to have fun drinking and fornicating without compromise, charity prayed hard that she may be delivered from temptation.

The next time she woke up, it was to the incessant churn of her alarm. It was 5.00 o’clock; time to go pray. Charity had known the divine power of prayer and devotion. Her life in college was a wretch without purpose. And she purposed to lead a pleasing life in the eye of the almighty God.

Darkness outside merged with her form and she vanished. While she strode silently, she hummed distinct worship songs; songs that melted her heart. This way, she had learnt from her pastor, she would not have to stray into evil thoughts. Those that threatened to loosen grip onto salvation. She could even quote from the holy bible but the exact verse escaped her memory.

Charity came to an end of the last song she could remember that morning. Not even a chorus could come to her mind for the remaining few meters to the church. Suddenly she hesitated. Her heart gradually entered a pounding phase. Fear landed on her and refused to leave.

Something was lurking behind her in the shadows of the darkness, probably the same thing that had robbed her of the hymns. She wanted to take a bolt but from what? Everything fell so silent that she could hear her own blood gush in their vessels. Charity rushed into the church.

Leaning against the shut double doors inside the church, Charity let out a long sigh of relief. Her chest eased down slowly as if she had been holding her breath. She opened her eyes to intricate pews and a narrow aisle leading a raised podium with a stand in the middle and a large purple and white curtain covering the whole of the wall behind the stand.

“Oh lord, lead me your poor child. Guide me when it is dark and let my heart not cow. In the name of Jesus Christ. Light up my paths, direct my feet so I may walk in your grace. Father….”

Her dry, husky voice echoed down the empty hall.

Outside, the leaves rustled. Tree branches roared in their fight against the strong wind. The iron sheet roofing hummed and creaked as if negotiating with an unknown force. A calendar hanging on the wall of the chipped wall swayed back and forth and dropped.

(Part 2 still brewing) Enjoy!