Chaos, Life

I've been trying to find my pen for quite a while now, each time I manage to grab it, I realise that the ink has depleted. I'm still struggling. I hope to get it back soon. It's getting too long, and I'm scared I might not get to that place again. Not in the same way.

For now, take a look at this.

I want to tell you stories
About my life and things I’ve seen.
About people and places I’ve been.
I have a lot to tell.
Tales both beautiful and ugly.
Would you like to hear
The things I did in my youth,
Little actions I secretly regret.
Or the ones I do in my old age,
Those I don’t intend to give up.

I want to tell you about children,
Little humans running around naked,
Hiding behind trees pointing at strangers.
Girls with firewood on their heads,
Boys with hoes on their shoulders.
Would you like to hear
How they peep at adults
While they take a bath,
Or how they roam the streets after rain,
Catching and frying termites.

I want to tell you about women
Living in service to their husbands.
Smoke puffing from their kitchen,
Trays balanced on their heads,
Hips swinging in rhythm.
Would you like to hear
How they make an innocent person
Confess to killing her husband,
Or how they go round the village
Stripping her naked and screaming shame.

I want to tell you about men,
Sitting and laughing at unfunny jokes,
Smoking pipes with stained teeth.
The oldest breaking colanut,
The youngest serving palm wine.
Would you like to hear
How they touch their daughters
And make a man blind with juju,
Or how they beat their wives
And take from her while she sobs.

I want to tell you about a people,
Accepting a certain way of life.
Generations go by them
As they hold on to nothing,
Wallowing in accepted ignorance,
Would you like to hear
How they murder
Whoever that throws a challenge,
Or how they close their eyes
While their children suffer.

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