Prelude to Our Emeli Sunday

"I Can't buy your love, don't even want to try, sometimes the truth won't make you happy, So I'm not gonna lie, but don't ever question if my heart beats only for you- it beats only for you..."
- 'My Kind of love' Emeli Sande

We fell in love in the rain. Not a roar but a pitter-patter that spotted my glasses and the shoulders of my jacket. With my hand tightly squeezed in hers she led me past puddles and undeterred chapati peddling capitalists until we found ourselves in the dark corner of a dark bar breathless from and greedy for one another.

I could taste the beer on her breath, smell the sex on her skin, feel the desperation in her fingers and the hunger in her hips. There was no getting away from it, no escaping this "us" we were quickly falling into.

And as I took a moment to stop and stare into the depths of twenty-four years worth of hurt and sin, thousands of thoughts swam through my head- questions, reservations, apprehensions. One thought managed to trump them all, however. Just one...only one. That one thought being, "Enjoy tonight for tomorrow will be another day."

We fell into a pool of passion, drowning in each other’s lips; my hands suffocating, her fingertips unforgiving. Fists bombarding hearts and hands tightly clasped we ran out into the rain and into a cab. And then just like that the night was gone and with the first few grey streaks of dawn, sanity returned.


Shapes + Colors: A Mixtape. Coming Soon...

Coffee + Cocoa + Cannabis = Never. A. Gain.

I was high. Like high, ha-high, high, high. Like, "Hi, my name is...uh...just give me a second," and then going on to talk about my favorite kind of ice cream kind of high. It was the paranoid as fuck kind of high. The, it would not be a very good idea to be out in public kind of high. And so what do we do? Go to a public pool, that's what.

We must have been sitting a good 50 yards away from it but for some irrational reason I still had this fear that if I moved just an inch I would fall into the pool. I could hear words but none of them made any real sense. Everything seemed to be moving either really fast or incredibly slow and I felt as if my stomach was in my ass. When someone tried to say something to me all I did was smile because I was afraid that if I opened my mouth I would scream, cry or spit on them. I'm pretty sure it was pretty obvious and so when one of them tapped me on the shoulder, waited the full five seconds for me to turn and asked me whether I was high I smiled and nodded very, very slowly.

"Yeah," she said with a smile, "I can kind of tell."

I tried to think of a witty response but then suddenly found the label on my beer more interesting than the person I was talking to and picking up my bottle began to studiously examine it. That was the last time she talked to me while we were there. Sorry.

Back hair. Back hair? Back hair. I think someone was talking about back hair. I have back hair. Wait, what was that...? Would I show you...? Uh...no. Why not? Uh...just. Now leave me alone, I really don't like you. And yeah, yeah, yeah, I know you’re only talking to me because I'm sleeping with one of your girlfriends but you see the truth is, frankly, I really don’t give a damn.

Wait...I didn't just say that out loud did I? Um, well she doesn’t seem to be pissed off so I guess not. *big sigh of relief* Ok, now you really need to get out of here. Yeah, sure, I'm just not sure whether I can move. Ok, so this is what we are going to do; start with a toe...just a toe. Like that bitch in Kill Bill, wiggle... your big...toe...

Ah, good, it seems you’re not paralyzed after all. Ok, now slowly stand up, politely excuse yourself and get the fuck out of there.

I didn’t go anywhere. I couldn’t. Not even to the bathroom even though I felt as if I was going to shit myself. I didn’t get up until we all did. Shaking hands, giving hugs, mumbling goodbyes I silently swore to myself that I was never going to get high again.

Look out for Colors + Shapes: A Mixtape Coming Soon...

New York, New York

There are two different New Yorks. The one they show you in the movies, music videos and TV shows and then there's the other one. The one that they don't want you to see. The one that is old and dirty with its broken, washed out people shuffling along it's broken, war worn sidewalks, territory to countless broken homes. This is the New York that I saw, even if at a distance. And even when years later I saw the city of flashing lights, trendy street walkers and big word talkers; it is the other New York that I remember.

We woke up at four and were on the road no more than half an hour later. It was The Three Nelsons, Basil, my mother and I. My Mom had rented a Dodge van and got Basil to drive.

"And none of your monkey business," my Mom had warned him. "There are going to be children in the car."

The Three Nelsons and I were spread out across the seats with pillows and blankets cushioning and covering us. The plan was to sleep along the way. We had a five hour drive ahead of us and spending most of it sleeping was the most practical thing to do, my mother had reasoned.

I woke up to the mid morning sun; drab buildings, dirty streets and whipping past the window and a full to the bursting bladder.

"Mom."

My mother turned in her seat to look at me. "Yes sweetie?"

"I need to go the bathroom."

"We're almost there hun. Just another 20 minutes. Do you think you can wait that long sweetie?"

I said that I could and half an hour later I was zipping up my jeans in a smelly toilet thanking the God Almighty for the gift of pee.

We were at the facility. It had old linoleum floors that squeaked every time you let yourself shuffle a little bit, dusty florescent ceiling lights that blinked semi rhythmically as if to a muted song that only they could hear, mustard colored walls that had peeled in places revealing the dirty baby blue paint job under it and a smell that was a cross between abandoned house must and hospital anti-septic cleaner.

Squeaking my way down the hall I made my way back to what was ridiculously called "The Visitors Lounge" but what looked more like a decrepit high school cafeteria. My mother sat with Basil at one table and The Three Nelsons sat at another with their mother, Carol. I had heard my mother tell Basil that Carol had been clean for about two months now but wouldn’t be up for review to leave for another two. I didn’t really know what that meant apart from the fact that The Three Nelsons were going to be staying with us for a little while longer.

Bored, I pulled out my Game Boy Color and lost myself in a game of Pokémon. This was not what I had expected when my Mom said that we were taking a day trip to New York. I was thinking the Empire State Building, TRL and Times Square. Not this. This was bullshit. The place was a dump and more importantly there was nothing to do. Not that I made my thoughts known however. With my Mom that would have earned me a slap upside my head. And so I pressed A, B, A, B, B, B, B, A, B, A, A with one thumb and used the other to toggle the direction pad and waited.

It was another half an hour before The Four Nelsons had a very teary and extremely huggy goodbye, Carol thanking my Mom profusely saying that she couldn't thank her enough, may God bless her and answer her every prayer, shaking Basil's hand and wishing him a safe passage with her kids and gingerly patting me on the shoulder and thanking me for being such a good friend to them.

"Don't mention it." I said. And I meant that. Her thanking me the way she did sort of make me feel guilty because the truth is I was a horrible friend to her kids. She or life or whatever had messed them up pretty bad, made them weird as hell and so at school at least I pretended as much as possible without making it too obvious that I didn’t know them. Which meant pretending not to hear them when they called my name down the hall, eating either super fast or super late at lunch so that none of them would be able to sit with me and making sure my seat was always taken on the bus ride back home. I was the cool black kid and I intended to keep it that way.

As we climbed back into the van to head back home I began to think that maybe I had been looking at things all wrong.

"The world is cold." I thought in a brief moment of clarity, vaguely aware of Basil telling everyone to buckle up.

"We need all the friends we can get."

Shapes + Colors: A Mixtape Coming Soon

CSI: (The) Coffee Spirit Incident

I woke up naked and in a strange bed with no clue as to how I got there. My phone wouldn't stop ringing, its poly phonic ringer as persistent as that smear of shit that sticks to the bottom of your toilet bowl no matter how many times you flush.

Clutching at it (the phone sat buzzing beneath the heavenly pillowness of the pillow that pillowed my head) I tossed it across the room, its brief conversation with a wall quickly silencing it. Racking my brain I tried to figure out just what the hell had happened but all I could scrape together were tid-bits and small scraps of torn up mental photographs.

1. It was the middle of the month, a Saturday and as broke as the boys and I were, we desperately wanted to get drunk. So what do we do? Scrounge together some ancient looking notes and a whole lot of coins (worry not- food will worry about itself) and bought a box of Coffee Spirit.

2. Each box of Coffee Spirit has 12 tot packs and there were 3 of us. That meant 4 each which was more than enough to get fucked up on. I "germaned" 9.

3. One of my boys, Moses, has a sort of famous sister and those days whenever he was broke he would call her up and being the cool chick that she was she would let us hang out with her, all expense paid. He called her.

4. We went to Mateo's and drank.

5. We went to Rouge and we drank.

6. We went to Cascades and we drank.

7. By three in the morning our limbs were crying for blankets and mattresses and anything to make the world stop spinning and thanks to Moses' sister we were able to bum ourselves a ride home.

8. We were almost home when my other friend, Ronnie, decided that that would be the perfect time to up chuck all over himself, the floor of the car and a little bit on the driver. The up to that point Mr. Kind Driver Sir was none to happy about this, of course and jerking the car to a stop told us to get out. "Fuck you!" we all said in tandem "It's just up there!" I added, pointing up the road but one look at his face and we all knew the dude meant business and so we got out. We were pretty close to home anyway, we consoled ourselves and so we decided that we would walk.

9. I was wearing two shirts that day and so pulling one up over my head I gave it to Ronnie who took off his vomit smeared one and pulled on mine. And then Ronnie, deciding that he was suddenly hungry suggested that we go get rolexes.

10. Rolex; Noun: Fried eggs, usu. two, rolled up in a chapati. Served commonly w/ diced cabbage and tomatoes either mixed in with the eggs or added afterwards and rolled in with the eggs. Cheap and filling as hell.

11. We ate rolexes.

12. We then decided it was time to go home.

13. Blank.

14. Blank.

15. Blank.

16. I was at my front door but I couldn't find my keys. It was light out and I could hear the sound of cars whizzing past on the nearby Northern Bypass. How did it suddenly become morning? And where were Ronnie and Moses? Ronnie, as it turned out, was already inside dead asleep (the dude was my housemate) and Moses the same at his place. Instead of simply knocking on the door so that Ronnie could open it, I reasoned that Moses didn't live all that far away, I might as well crash there, all I had to do was pass through that swamp over there.

17. Bending over I puked all over my shoes. The smell of alcohol, stomach acid and the faint stench of eggs pulling at my nostrils. Once the retching had stopped I straightened up, wiped my mouth on my shirt and began my stumble down to Moses' place.

And so that's where I was, Mozay's place, although that didn't really explain why I was naked. I sat up and as I took a look around noticed my clothes in a heap on the floor. They were caked with mud. Shoes, jeans, shirt, hat- everything.

Looking around I grabbed a towel and throwing back the blanket stood up and wrapped the towel around my waist.

"He lives!"

Moses said as I walked into the sitting room. I let myself flop down into a chair. Moses was reclined on a sofa holding a bottle of beer in one hand and a samosa in the other. He was watching BET.

"Boyo, how you feeling?"

"Fuck, like I never want to drink another drink again."

Moses looked at me for a moment, a smile pulling at his mouth. Then holding up his bottle he said,

"Hell, I can drink to that."

He took a swig and then held out the bottle to me.

I eyed him for a moment, was he fucking serious? I mean I just told him that...

'You only live once homie." I found myself thinking and then making a decision, I took the bottle from him.

"Hell, me too." I conceded and took a swig of my own.



Look out for Shapes + Colors: A Mixtape Coming Soon...

Retrograde (A Short Story)

An Aside: I don't think I've ever written a sequel before. Sure I've written stories with multiple parts but those when you came right down to it (whether they were three or fifteen) were all part of the same story. This one however, is the first time Ive actually attempted to revisit characters that I once lived with. Catch up with how they are doing, what they are doing and how the events of the previous story have shaped their lives since.

The particular story of which the one below is a sequel to is one I wrote about a year ago entitled "For Everything a Reason". The people, Ben and Sharon; a man and a woman in a relationship where their love goes horribly awry with very...interesting consequences.

The last time around I centred in on Ben ultimately as the main character. He was the narrator and therefore the story for, all intensive purposes, was his. I wanted to take a different approach this time and tell Sharon's story. And even though Sharon does not serve as the narrator, the story does begin and end with her. My only hope is that I did her justice.

-- L.A. Lutara

Retrograde


She lives in a house full of ghosts. Memories of happiness, hope and a giddy kind of love skipping hand-in-hand up and down its empty halls, sitting and watching Bollywood movie after Bollywood movie in its stylishly decorated, big screen TV'ed living room, cooking mouth watering feasts that put goliaths to sleep as well as to shame in its stainless steel kitchen.

They float from room to room, these ghosts, alighting on anything and everything, making her home their home, their haunting transforming it from a place of rest and re cooperation into a place of constant torment.

They are a rambunctious bunch, shamelessly keeping her awake at night, every night- singing schmaltzy Top 40 love songs, dancing circles around her head, around her bed and leaving dark circles beneath her eyes.

This house that houses these spirits of long dead feelings and that has long since ceased being a home belongs to her sister, the one who is supposed to help her get through this "hard time" but who is never there. A big government job with a big government car and big government allowances- ones given and ones taken makes sure of this. She is also married, this sister, but with a husband away most of the time (a doctor in some upcountry hospital) it is not uncommon for her sister to host the occasional male visitor on those evenings when she does manage to make it home before 11 O'clock. On those nights she slips on a jacket, ties on a scarf and walks out the door. It never matters how late it is nor does it really matter where she goes, anything to get away from the nausea of her sister's infidelity.

She has lived like this for almost two years. Ever since she lost Blake and Blair to a pool of blood and a bad dream. Even now she thinks of them as little human beings and not just foetuses that once grew inside of her.

"You'll get over it." people said.

"You just need to give it some time." others encouraged.

"I totally get how you feel and all I can say is that it will get better." yet another comforted.

Well she hadn't, time was not doing shit and if anything, for some time at least, she felt worse. Those people didn't know jack shit about how she felt. She was dead while still breathing, a hollow, a husk, a shell of her former self. The worst possible version of herself. They just didn't get it, how could they? And so instead of trying to get her she was prescribed anti-depressants. The ones that made you slow and sleep a lot and put on weight. She put on at least 10kgs after she started taking them. But then she had lost at least 20kgs when everything had happened and so at it was she was still a whole lot slimmer than people were used to.

She's not on them any more though. Not because she feels better but because she feels as if she needs to get better and the pills were not helping.

She has been off them for about a month now and so far she hasn't slit her wrists, hung herself from a chandelier or flung herself down a flight of stair;s so that's some sort of progress right?

Sure, she had thought about doing those things but she hadn't actually done any of them. She had fainted at some point, taking quite a nasty tumble, earning herself quite a few bruises and a classic concussion but that didn't count, did it? It wasn't intentional after all.

That was around the time the texts and phone calls began.

1:47 am

1 text message received

Benjamin ORA

I cnt seem 2 slip & al I cn think abt is u. hw r u? I kno its l8 & I shld hv w8ed til mornin bt I hd 2 ask. I wori abt u.

Sharon didn't reply. She saw no reason to. Not that she hated him any more, no, that had dissolved a while back. She just didn't know what to make of the message. Was he being nice? Did he have some kind of ulterior motive? What was he up to? It was almost 2 O'clock in the morning for chrissake. And so because she wasn't sure she thought it better to just let it be. Better safe than sorry and all that jazz.

Four days later there came another one. Same time, same vein. This time he mentioned the twins. How he often thought about them. How losing them had been like an axe in the heart and how he just couldn't stop bleeding. Sure, he tried his best to cover it up, to move on, to put on a brave face for the world but the truth was he missed them, he missed her and he missed the life they could have had together.

This time Sharon replied.

9:11 am

1 text message received

Sharon UTL

I miss them 2. Evry day sinc hz bin a battle. sm days r hell, otha days nt so mch. I miss u 2 sometimes. Wen I manag 2 c past the hurt. hw r u?

At the time, Sharon couldn't put her finger on it but something about Ben's words made him seem different. Maybe it was his admission that she hadn't born the hurt alone. Maybe it was him saying how he missed the life they could have had. Whatever it was though, it made Sharon feel as if she had a partner in this, even if an unlikely one, even if a small one. And so when she fell down the stairs she called him. Not for him to help her, no, he had no reason to, not really, but to let him know. Maybe he would serve as a hand holder of sorts, a proverbial shoulder to lean on, even if only over the phone.

He seemed concerned; asked whether she was OK. Who was with her. What did the doctors say. What she was taking. All the right questions with all the right amounts of concern. She couldn't help but feel a little tug. Tried her best to ignore it.

"He broke your heart." She told herself.

Completely and irretrievably. He did not deserve even the tiniest crawl space of a place in her haphazardly glued together semblance of a heart.

And so when Ben asked to see her Sharon said no. Not out right, she had said she needed to think about it which they both knew in reality meant "No.". Not one with finality but more of one that suggested that she was not yet ready. And so understanding this, Ben did not push.

That does not mean that they did not talk however. Because they did. A lot. And for about three weeks. And then Ben once again asked whether he could see her. It still bugged her why he wanted to but this time she felt ready. At least a little more than she did before anyway. And so she said yes, he could.

"Cool." he said. "You name the when and the where."

Sharon thought about this for a moment.

"It's Monday right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Then how about Wednesday?"

"I can do that." he said. "Where?"

"Well, I can't really leave home right now so..."

"So do you want me to come to you? Cuz I can. Do you want me to?"

Why is he being so damn considerate? Sharon wondered. It went against everything she had come to believe about him. What she had seen about him. He had stayed around for the kids, not for her after all. And when the kids were gone, so was he.

"Sure." she said.

"Cool. So I'll call you tomorrow evening to set up a time then?"

"Sure." she said again.

And then it is Wednesday and her phone is ringing and it is him calling and he is at the gate and she is opening it for him and she is on her tip toes and he is hugging her.

The first thing she notices about him is how much weight he has put on. Not so much in the face but all in the stomach. He still looks good though. And knowing him he knows that and so Sharon decides to poke a little fun at him.

"but you ki-boy, what have you been eating?"

"Little boys and girls mostly. Why? Does it show?"

He says holding his stomach and striking a pose.

Sharon lets out a small laugh and tells him to come in.

So far, so good.

After showing him where to sit Sharon gets him a glass of water (sweat, sweat, sweat everywhere) and makes sure to not sit on the same couch as him (still wary; very, very wary).

At first they talk about safe things, which is to say that they mostly talk about him and even when they do talk about her it is mostly in broad strokes- how she spends her days, how she cooks at night, how her hair has finally grown back out after she had shorn it almost to the skin in a frenetic act of mourning....

Not quite as broad of a stroke as she hopes but it just sort of tumbles out. She never really had full reign of her tongue around Ben. And Even now, after everything she is still having a hard time keeping her words in check.

Sharon runs a hand through her luxurious head of hair as she says this. The darkness of the memory momentarily sweeping her, her gaze becomes far off, her other hand instinctively going to her stomach.

"Hey."

Sharon snaps her head in Ben's direction.

"You OK?" He genuinely sounds concerned. He looks concerned too; his forehead is creased with worry.

"Yeah...yeah I'm fine." Sharon says shaking off the shadow.

She stands up.

"More water? Juice? Biscuits?"

Ben thinks about it for a second.

"I choose D. All of the above."

Sharon smiles and this makes Ben smile. He lost her there for a second.

"Coming right up."

The fat jokes keep coming. Not that she minds the extra padding mind you. She would still jump his bones in a second.
"Well my bones are all yours for the jumping. But only if you're gentle." Ben flirts lightly. "You know I'm a sensitive soul."

Another laugh and another wink of the eye. Ben finds the sound of her laughter re-assuring. He is there because he is worried about her. Really worried. At least she is doing a lot better than he thought. Thank God.

"It's good to see you." Ben says "and I'm glad you're doing OK."

Sharon examines him. Is he being sincere? Is he really there as a friend? Is he really there just to make sure that she is OK? Everything so far seems to point to that but something still keeps her from fully believing it so.

"You seem different, you know that?"

Ben smiles.

"Oh yeah? Good different or bad different?"

"Ha! Don't misunderstand me Ben, it's not like you have suddenly become a knight in shining armour or anything, far from it. But you do seem less cold. I'm pretty sure that if I put my hand on your chest I would actually be able to feel your heart beating."

"You mean I was cold before?"

"Like Mr. Freeze."

"Huh. I'm not sure whether to take that as a compliment or be extremely offended by that. Nice reference though."

"My nephew watches a lot of cartoons and I baby sit a lot. And a compliment, definitely a compliment."

They share a curtailed smile and arrive at an awkward silence. Their conversation has been littered with them, descending whenever neither of them seems to have anything to say; the space filling up with all the unsaid.

Breath in, breath out.

Ben takes a sip of his apple juice. Cold. Ceres.

"I thought this would be harder." Sharon says a moment later, melting the mounting silence.

"How come?"


"We have history." Sharon says as a way of explanation.

Ben gives a little shrug.

"And...?"

"And you don't think we do?"

"Of course I do. An immense amount of it. Probably more than most could ever hope for."

"And you didn't think that history would make things at least a little...weird?"

Ben shakes his head.

"No."

Sharon ponders this for a moment.

"Then let me ask you, what did you expect when you came here?"

Ben is silent for a moment. For more than a moment, for maybe three. Sharon is about to give up on him answering when he does.

"I didn't expect anything. The best way to avoid being disappointed is-"

"To not have any expectations." Sharon finished for him.

"Exactly. I came because I wanted to see how you were. I'm glad to see that you're OK."

"Better, not OK. It's still hard. I still cant sleep. I still cry for no reason. I still have moments when I want to stick a knife in your neck and feel your blood on my finger tips."

Awkward silence, obviously.

Ben swallows, tries to think of something innocuous to say without coming off as trite.

"Are you still thinking about surrogacy?"

hmmmm, not quite what he was going for but oh well.

Sharon licks her lips,

"I thought about it for a long time and in the end I realized that all I would be doing is trying to temporarily replace what I had lost with something that in the end would not be mine. It wouldn't be a wise thing to do."

Ben nods. Tries to ignore the fact that Sharon just regurgitated his own sentiments, almost verbatim, back to him as if they were her very own.

"I really took what you said to heart." she adds as if reading Ben's mind.

Ben is about to wave it away when his phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and glances down at its face and is instantly reluctant to answer it.

"Take it." Sharon says instantly picking up on the hesitation pinioning him.

"You sure?"

"Go ahead."

And so he does.

The conversation is brief but with several, "I will's" and "Don't worries" and even a couple of "I know's".

"I'm guessing you have to go." Sharon says once he has hung up.

"You guess right." Ben says standing up. Sharon gets up as well.

"A meeting, a date? A boss, a girlfriend?"

"Something like that."

"You know you haven't answered my question right?"

The two of them begin walking towards the front door, the gate.

"Mmmm-hmmm."

"Girlfriend then."

Fiancé actually, Ben thinks but says nothing.

They reach the gate.

"This has been nice." Ben says holding open his arms for a hug.

"It has." Sharon replies allowing herself to be hugged.

"And Ben,"

"Yes?"

"Congratulations."

"For what?"

"Your impending nuptials of course."

The look on Ben's face is that of a kid who has been caught with a fist full of sweets five minutes before supper time.

Small town and people talk, he should have known. He wanted to tell her himself, that was the point of the entire visit and he was about to but something she said told him that she was not OK as he told her he thought she was. He didn't think she was ready and here she had known the entire time.

"It's OK." Sharon says, taking his hand and squeezing it. "I appreciate your concern, it's actually kind of sweet."

She pulls him in for another hug.

"Take care of yourself Ben. And take care of her. She's a good one."

And with that the visit is over. Ben heading back to his life, his bride and his future and Sharon heading back to what exactly?

This question swirls around Sharon's head as she walks back into the house, up two flights of stairs and turning around flings herself down them.

Private Show Pt. 3: Hair & Make-up

Patrick pulled out his phone to check the time- she was late. Not very, maybe by like ten minutes or so but because Patrick was fastidious about such things, to him she was irrevocably, irreversibly, irritatingly late.

Patrick let out a frustrated sigh and tossed his phone onto the space of cushiony cushioness next to him.

He had booked an executive suite at the Serena and at that moment sat slouched in one of it's red wood tone upholstered love seats, its coffee and cream coloured cushions lying carelessly on either side of him.

Letting himself sink even further into the chair, Patrick tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

Patience...he muttered to himself. Patience...

It had been two Saturdays since he and Bridget had struck a deal with the sultry songstress and although in the beginning Patrick had looked forward to this day, as it stood at that very moment, all he wanted was for it to be over.

Bridget, on the other hand, had revelled in the preparations from the get go.

But wait, just how much preparation actually goes into a singer showing up, singing a few songs for an audience of two and then leaving? You may ask.

Well, with Bridget flag-shipping the entire thing, more than you can possibly imagine.

Bridget walked out of the bedroom, where she had laid out Deandra's outfit (costume? get up?) on the bed, and leaving little dents in the vanilla coloured wall-to-wall carpet with her heels, sashayed into the sitting area.

"She'll be here in twenty minutes." Bridget announced, holding up her phone to indicate where she had gotten the information from.

Opening his eyes, Patrick looked over at Bridget.

It always caught him off guard just how strikingly beautiful she was.

Her hair hung two inches below her bare shoulders, her bangs perfectly cropped. She wore a red pencil dress that stopped just shy of her calves and sheathed the curves of her body perfectly, a pair of velvety black pumps on her feet which added four inches to her height and just enough make-up to accentuate the prominence of her cheek bones, pout of her lips and dreaminess of her eyes.

"You look beautiful." was Patrick's reply.

Of course she did. Bridget worked very hard to make sure that she did and so it wasn't really much of a compliment Patrick telling her so.

But a compliment is still a compliment, Bridget reminded herself. And there's a way a girl is meant to respond to a compliment, no matter who it comes from.

And so with that, Bridget tilted her head to one side, placed a hand on a hip and awwwwd a thank you in Patrick's direction.

"You don't look all that bad yourself." She added a second later. And she wasn't lying either, he didn't, considering.

He wore a perfectly tailored black pinstriped suit, white button down and black silk bow tie. At Bridget's insistence of course. And even though Patrick's face was far from camera friendly he did have the body of an athlete and so wore the clothes extremely well.

In their expensive hotel room the two of them looked like a power couple getting ready to hit the red carpet; it was too bad they weren't going to even leave the room.

"So did she say why she was late?" Patrick asked without acknowledging Bridget's compliment.

She felt a little slighted by this but tried her best not to let it show it.

"Traffic."

"It's 15 minutes past two on a Saturday afternoon, there is no traffic."

Bridget shrugged,

"Well that's what she told me."

"Did you call her or did she call you?"

"She called me."

"Oh. OK."

Well that changed things a bit, maybe she was telling the truth.

"What about Hair and Make-up?"

"He was already waiting downstairs. I just called him and so he should be here any-"

Three sharp raps on the door interrupted Bridget's reply. At the same time Bridget's phone began to ring in her hand,

Shine bright like a diamond!

"-minute."

Bridget glanced at her phone.

"That's him." she said and silencing her phone, padded her way to the front door.

Once there Bridget took a deep breath to prepare herself for the whirlwind which was Zeus and grabbing the door handle, turned it and swung open the door.

He was five foot five; wore red boat shoes, yellow capris, a white belt and a blue slim-fit short-sleeved button down smartly tucked into his capris. A pair of Rayban aviator's, a Blackberry 9800 in one hand and a LV tote bag in the other made the ensemble complete.

"Hmmmph," Zeus intoned when he saw Bridget. "Your'e going for a movie première oba?"

Bridget struck a pose.

"You like?"

Zeus struck one himself.

"I love. And that dress...eh, you chick.

We're going to have to do something about that make up though."

He said between kisses on each of Bridget's cheeks.

"Now where is my Rihanna?" He asked. And without waiting for a reply, Hair & Make-up walked into the room.

Private Show Pt. 2: Deal

Now, any other Tuesday would have found the odd couple slipping away unnoticed a few minutes before eleven, which was when the show usually ended. On this particular Tuesday, however, Patrick and Bridget decided to stick around because Patrick...had an idea.

As per custom, Deandra made her way around to all the occupied tables, shaking a hand here, giving a hug there, sharing a laugh and thanking, thanking, thanking whoever it was for turning up and showing so much love, much appreesh.

During her rounds she shot a glance here and there towards Patrick and Bridget's table and then once she was done with the others, casually made her way over to them. The odd couple stood up to meet her.

"I was wondering when you guys would stick around long enough for me to come and say hi. I've seen you here. Every Tuesday for like the last six months."

Deandra had a British accent and every word was pronounced with a certain degree of exactness.

She wore nothing on her feet, still barefoot from the show, black leggings, an army green skirt that stopped mid-thigh, a black wife beater and an assortment of beady jewellery that dangled from her wrists, her neck and her ears.

Bridget liked her instantly.

"We think your'e amazing." She blurted. "You have such a beautiful voice. How long have you been singing?"

Placing a hand just above her heart, Deandra thanked Bridget humbly,

"and for as long as I can remember."

"And saxophone? How long have you been playing saxophone?" Patrick added.

Deandra gave him the subtle once over.

Now although she didn't think herself a superficial woman and although he did seem quite nice, Deandra still couldn't help but ask herself why a girl that looked like Her would be hanging out with a guy that looked liked Him.

Deandra silently shrugged to herself, maybe it was the sex.

"I've been playing the sax since I was about 8. My father bought me my first one for my 8th birthday. I still have it actually. I don't play it of course, it's just one of those things you keep, you know what I mean?"

Both Patrick and Bridget nodded; they did, they did know what she meant.

"Ummm, so how much do you charge to perform a show?" Bridget inquired.

She asked this a little apologetically. As if she didnt really want to but the question couldnt really be avoided. Sweet. Deandra saw it for what it really was though, a play at innocence to drive the asking price down. If only just a little bit. Deandra was certain of this because she did the same thing whenever she went to buy shoes, dresses, whatever.

No dice.

"We play for 1.5."

Which was a lie. They actually played for 1.2 but it was always better to start high and work your way down. Or that's at least what she had been told.

"And how about for just you?"

This was Patrick.

"I don't play without my band." Deandra answered, "There wouldn't be any reason to."

"What if we could give you one?" Patrick intoned. He was all smooth confidence.

"And what answer would that be?"

"1.5. Just for you."
Hmmmm, so he has money, Deandra mused to herself. That actually made a lot of sense.

Now even though Deandra's warning bell went off at the same time as the Cha-Ching of her internal cash register, she couldn't help but be intrigued. It was 1.3 million more than she would make from a normal gig after all. The thing was, what was the catch?

"How many people would I be playing for?"

At this, the couple exchanged a glance, not a good sign. Deandra had a feeling she knew what the answer was going to be but willed herself to wait for it before deciding on anything.

It was Bridget who answered.

"Just us."

Yep, she knew it. These two were psychopaths. They were going to kidnap her, rap her, kill her, (or maybe they would rape her after they killed her, who knew with people these days?) rip out her vocal cords and put them in a zesta jar. Lord knew she was not about to let that happen. Heeeeeeeeell to the no. She still had a whole lot of singing to do.

"Um, I'm not quite sure I'm comfortable with that." She said cautiously.

"We're not a couple of of psychopaths." Bridget answered reassuringly as if reading Deandra's mind.

"We just thought it would be cool, you know? And if we can; well, why not right?" Bridget continued with a shrug.

Deandra was almost convinced. Plus, she was just being paranoid wasn't she? Kidnapping and murder? This was Uganda, not some Hollywood movie. She did tend to let her imagination run away from her at times, Deandra admitted to herself. And then there was the fact that the money wasn't all that bad either. But again, seeing as they were willing to pay 1.5...maybe they would be willing to pay,

"2 Million and you have yourself a deal."

Bridget looked at Patrick who seemed to take a moment to think about it. Mental calculations and all of that. In the end, it was his decision.

"Deal." came his reply a few moments later.

"There's just probably one thing you should know upfront though."

Creased forehead.

"And what's that?"

"We want you to do only Rihanna songs."

Deandra's expression smoothed into a slight smile.

"I have no problem with that, I love Rihanna."

The couple exchanged glances again. This time less anxious, more relieved.

"Good," Bridget said, placing a hand on Patrick's arm,

"because we love her too."

Private Show Pt. 1: Light Bulb

An Aside: There's nothing like being in the company of a beautiful woman. And this story, for the most part, owes its existence to being in the company of not one but two beautiful women; Sheinaz Malik who shares my quite unhealthy obsession for Rihanna and who serves as the 'fleshy' on which the money chasing beauty 'Bridget' is very loosely based on (NB: Sheinaz is nowhere close to being the gold digging whore that Bridget is, just to make it clear) and Maureen 'MoRoots' Rutabingwa who can belt out a Rihanna tune probably better than Rihanna can and who serves as the 'fleshy' from which the sax playing songtress 'Deandra' is loosely based on.

Now for me, at least, this is one of those stories that one does not take all that seriously. It's not like some others I have written that have required an immense amount of energy and concentration because there's something specific that I'm trying to say, writing this story was like...was like a day out at the beach. My only hope is that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

So here's to hoping that you do (salut),

-- L.A. Lutara



Part 1: Light Bulb

She was short, he was tall. She was light, he was dark. She was pretty; very pretty, the kind of pretty in fact that any man would want to have babies with and he was...well let's just say that he was not the kind of man a girl would want to be seen out in public by her friends with. He did have money though, a lot of it and to a girl like Bridget that certainly went a long way to make up for his glaring ugliness.

They sat where they always sat. Far enough away from the stage that they would not be so easily noticed but still close enough to be considered a part of the audience.

He sipped at a Guiness; her, a double of Gilbey's with ice, a slice of lime and a dash of Krest.

They talked little, giving their mostly undivided to the woman ruling the stage with the magical sceptre of a microphone in front of them.

The sax playing, foot stomping, singing siren cutting up the stage played and sang and made magic every Tuesday night at the Blue Trumpet Jazz Club & Restaurant that boasted the crispiest fries and tastiest BBQ wings around town.

To say that they were just fans would have been an insult. They were fanatics. Her music did such saucy things to them that they even had sex to it.

Bridget would pull out the iphone 5 that Patrick had bought her and would record 5 minutes of the performance every week. Just one song though...

Diamonds.

And yes, the "Shine bright like a diamond." one.

Because as much as they were fanatics of the delectable Deandra (which is just her stage name by the way. She's something boring like Sarah, or Angella or Mary) they were absolutely freakin' nuts about Rihanna.

They even went as far as to refer to themselves a 'Rihanniacs'.

It was Bridget who came up with the name and even though Patrick thought it rather ridiculous, Bridget was pretty and was having sex with him and so he just went along with it.


It sort of bummed them out that Deandra only performed one Riri song every Tuesday which kind of relegated them to watching a grainy video phone clip over and over again but then beggars can not be choosers, can they?

And then Patrick realized something, they didn't have to be beggars because he, with pockets lined with 50's so fresh that their yellowish ink stained his fingertips, was far from one. He had money, lots of it and as Bridget was proof of it, there are very few things that one can not do with enough money.

Now this would be the part in the cartoon where a lit light bulb would appear above Patrick's head and he would hold up a finger and exclaim, "Aha!".

Placing a hand on top of one of Bridget's, Patrick turned to her.

"I think I just got an idea."

Bridget was mid sip and waited until she had set her glass back down on the table before answering.

"And what's that?"

And Patrick, smiling, showing off his yellowed and crooked teeth, proceeded to tell her.

The Olympian (Interlude)

An Aside: Last year Uganda won her second gold medal in fifty years. It was quite the feat and like every other Ugandan I applaud Stephen Kiprotich for his achievement. He is not, however, the only Olympian that Uganda has given birth to. There have been others that have lifted the crested crane onto their shoulders and showed her off to the world. Among them is Davis Kamoga who won the bronze medal for the men's 400m in 1996, bested only by Roger Black, a Brit and the great Michael Johnson. By far not an easy feat. Now although the following story is by no means his story, elements of it are certainly influenced by it.

Let us not forget our heroes past.

I hope you enjoy it.

-- L.A. Lutara

The Olympian

The first thing I noticed was that Yosam, sitting on the dirty side walk, was sporting only one leg. The second, was the man with the red dyed Mohawk bent over him, clipping the toe nails of that one leg.

According to Yosam, he hadn't always been that way (with one leg that is) but ask him how he lost the other and he wouldn't be able to tell you.

I know this because I did ask him; right there in the middle of the street.

“I don’t remember.” His off-handish answer had been.

You don’t remember or you don’t want to remember? I blinked at him.

I was intrigued and even though we were in one of the busiest parts of town, during one of the busiest times of the day, I "borrowed" a stool from a lady selling air time nearby (I saw her mouth twist into a mask of slight annoyance but pretended not to notice) and sat down next to him.

What he did remember was that the leg that went missing was the leg that he used to kick with. Footballs, tree trunks, metallic drums, heads in street brawls- he used it to kick everything. Without regard and without conscious.

And run. Boy did he love to run.

There was a gleam in his eye when he said this.

Even as a child he was given the title, “Little Lightening” and he went on to prove this time and time again; winning all the village races, catching all the chickens and out running all the canes.

Why he was telling me this was beyond me. Why I was even sitting there listening was even more outlandish. This wasn't like me at all. But then I hadn't been like “me” in a long time.

When he reached secondary school,

“Yes, I went to school,” He interjected, a sliver of an accent peeking through. “Kings College Budo. Senior one to Senior Six. And university in England as well. Nottingham; very prestigious. The same university that Sir Clive Granger attended. I may not look like it but I'm one sharp fellow.”

It was not until later that I found out that Sir Clive Granger is in fact a Nobel Prize recipient. Very prestigious indeed.

But then what happened? I found myself asking. Why was he now begging on the street with only one leg to his name?

Yosam waved away my question,

"Let me tell my story my way and maybe, just maybe we will get to that. Agreed?"

I nodded my assent.

"Agreed."

"Good. Now, are you thirsty?"

I was but I shook my head.

Yosam pointed at me.

"You are. Your'e lying to me. Your lips are drier than a nun past menopause."

I stared at him when he said this but he paid me no mind.

Reaching into one of the pockets of his ratty old khakis Yosam pulled out a knot of crisp looking notes of Ugandan tender. It was an inch and a half thick and from what I could see it was made up of mostly 50's, 20's and 10's. He peeled off a 10 and held it out to me.

"I drink Coke. You can get whatever you want."

I looked from him to the note then back up at him.

Who was this guy?

"Take it." he said shaking the tender.

After another moment's reluctance I did. Got up, walked to where a fridge sat 50 yards away, bought the man his Coke, bought myself a Sprite, both of which were of the 500ml plastic bottled variety, got the change and walked back to where Yosam sat.

When I got back the man with the red Mohawk was gone and Yosam's nails were clipped, filed and his heel scraped clean of any and all dead scaly skin.

I held out Yosam's soda and change, both of which he took. He cracked open the top of his soda and took a long swig.

Gulp...gulp...gulp and then,

"Ahhhhh." Yosam smacked his lips.

"Eh, I really needed that. Now, where was I...? Oh yes," and Yosam continued with his story.

When he reached secondary school not only did he run but he swam as well. He was so fast that when he competed in inter-school swim meets by the time the second place swimmer was half way through one lap, Yosam was already beginning his second.
His only competition was himself.

God had blessed him with a gift, at least that's what all his teachers and friends and family members told him. He really didn't see what the big deal was though.

So he was fast. And then what?

By the time Senior six was rolling around Yosam was quite the big fish and was quite the local celebrity.

"A big fish in a small pond" a white haired white man named Reverend Belinsky had told Yosam after yet another notch in the belt of a win.

"Let me take you to swim in the ocean." the old man had continued, appealing to Yosam's as yet still dormant sense of ambition.

Nine months later Yosam was a first year undergraduate at Nottingham University.

"What did you study?" I asked.

I was still finding it hard to believe that the man I was sitting with was a Nottingham alumnus. It just didn't make sense. You don't go to a school like that and wind up on the street. It was the kind of place that once you walked out off you were set for life. Or so I have been told.

"Economics and Russian."

You've got to be kidding me.

"Say something in Russian."

"Вы не имеете понятия, что происходит, у вас молодой человек? Бедный мальчик. Вы будете же. Все в свое время."

Again, all I could do is stare at him. The man could speak Russian. And although I was far from an expert, beyond what I had heard from action movie villains of course, his Russian sounded pretty darn good.

"What did you say?"

"I said, 'I quite enjoy your company and I hope we can do this again some time.'"

I seriously doubted this but I let it go.

"But why Russian though?"

Yosam shrugged.

"Reverend Belinsky was Russian so I thought, meh, 'Why not?'.

"Anyway, I ran all throughout university, ran afterwards, ran when I moved back to Uganda and ran myself all the way to the Olympics."

"The Olympics?"

"Yes, the Olympics. Atlanta 1996 to be precise."

"Wait, Atlanta 1996? As in the one where Michael Johnson was such a big deal?"

"The one and the same. I raced Johnson by the way. I didn't win of course but I did race him. In fact; he won gold, I won bronze."

Now I knew he was lying. This man with one leg, wearing rags and living on the street not only raced a man who was at one time the fastest man in the world but also won himself an Olympic medal? Now that was just absolute and utter nonsense.

"You don't believe me do you?"

I didn't try to mask my disbelief and told him right to his face that I didn't.

Yosam nodded his head as if my reaction was a totally understandable one. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a dirty handkerchief and held it out to me.

"Your'e giving me your dirty handkerchief?"

Yosam shook his head.

"Look at what's inside."

I reluctantly took it. Whatever it was, it was heavy.

Unwrapping the handkerchief I found myself looking down at a metallic disc about 70mm in diameter, weighing about 200gms and what seemed to be made of bronze.

I don't know how long I stared down at it.

"Quite amazing isn't it?" Yosam said, cutting through the dead space of my head.

I looked up at him.

"Who are you?"

Yosam looked at me with a bemused look on his face.

Before he could answer, however, I felt my phone in my pocket begin to vibrate; it's generic ringtone wafting between us.

"Are you going to answer that?"

I was. I didn't want to but I knew that I should and so I did. After a few seconds the yelling on the other end made it clear that it was time for me to go.

Wrapping the medal, I handed it back to Yosam who took it and pocketed it once more.

"I have to go." I said standing, "But I want to finish this conversation, how do I find you?"

Yosam licked his lips, finished off the rest of his Coke.

"I'll be right here. Every day. And it is not like I will be too hard to find, I'm the only one here with only one leg." he joked.

I allowed myself a smile. Extended a hand.

"Then I will see you tomorrow."

Yosam took it.

"Tomorrow then."

And I walked off.


It wasn't until I got home later that day that I thought to google the man with one leg, an economics degree from Nottingham and a bronze Olympic medal. He was indeed who he said he was. He did indeed graduate from the same university the current director of the British MI6 did, he did indeed have a front row seat to Michael Johnson making history and he did indeed win Uganda another Olympic medal. The only thing is, according to the almighty god Google, Yosam Kilungi had died four years prior in a car accident. His right leg crushed, his Olympic medal in one pocket and a thick knot of money in the other.



The End

For You I Will Move This Mountain: It's OK...Now Kiss Me

An Aside: A couple of people were asking me what ever happened to the story with Mundu & Sarah in it. Was it over? Is that where it ended? And if so, how come? The answer to the first two questions is a long and resounding "No." and so to back up that answer, here is the next chapter in the story, "For You I Will Move This Mountain"

And oh, just to make sure that all of ya'll are up to speed; here's the link to the previous chapter:

http://adoseofwordstothehead.blogspot.com/2012/12/for-you-i-will-move-this-mountain.html

Hope You Enjoy.


CHAPTER FOUR

Mundu and the old man walked for what seemed like hours and for what appeared to be, for a little while at least, in circles.

And if given the opportunity to ask Mundu why this appeared to be the case, he would have pulled out his four inch long blade, run it along the length of the inside of his forearm and sworn to you that they had passed that tree over there, the one that looked like a bent over old woman carrying a pot on her head more than just once, maybe even thrice.

But even though he was full of these suspicions, Mundu said nothing.

The Umululosi was old and possessed an old magic and even after all his exploits, Mundu still knew to be wary of this. And so Mundu did nothing in protest, simply wiping the sweat from his brow and putting one foot in front of the other.

They continued on like this until the sun began to dip towards the horizon.

And then they came to a clearing. And in this clearing sat a hut. A round, mud plastered, thatch roofed hut. And outside this hut sat a stool and on the stool sat a girl.

The girl wore a forest green wrapper that began at the armpits and ended mid thigh. Her feet were bare as were her shoulders. She was smiling a smile that seemed to almost say, "Don't look so surprised and come over here and hug me you ki-boy."

Forgetting how tired he was, which was very, and completely forgetting about the old man, and forgetting that the clearing and the hut were identical to the very ones they had left hours before; Mundu hurried into the clearing and then reaching Sera, lifted her off the stool and held her to him. He would have held onto her forever if it was not for her urging him to put her down.

Slowly, reluctantly Mundu did. Letting her stand on her own but adamantly refusing to remove his arms from around her waist.

He stared down at her in wonder.
"What are you doing here? Does your father know you are here? How did you find this place? It is getting dark, how are you going to get back home?"

"I've been waiting for you." is all Sera said in reply, smiling up at him.

She removed his hands from her waist and then took one of them in hers.

"Come...come..."

She led Mundu through the door way of the hut and inside.

What awaited him was something tantamount to a feast. Laid on a mat were bowls of cassava, sweet Potatoes, ugali, ground nut sauce, peanut butter paste, chicken, beef...it seemed like a lifetime since Mundu had seen so much food.

The assault on Mundu's senses was beyond belief and as if on cue his mouth began to water, his stomach rumble.

Sera pulled him further inside and then urged him to sit down.

"Let me serve you."

And she did, handing him a serving of food so big that it could have easily fed an entire family. As hungry as he was, however (the funny thing being that a few minutes before he hadn't been, not really, but sitting there he was suddenly ravenous) Mundu had no doubt that he would be able to finish every morsel.

He took the food but as he did, the strangeness of the entire situation suddenly began to plague him.

"Tell me something,"

"Yes love?"

"How did you find this place?"

"Eat up." was Sera's response as she sat down next to him. And so he did, although all the time mindful of Sera watching him curiously.

"Where is the old man?" He asked a few minutes later.

"How is the food?" was her reply.

"Good. But you have not answered my question."

"And which one is that?"

"Where is the old man?" and then remembering, "And how did you find this place?"

Sera placed a hand one one of Mundu's thighs,

"It doesn't matter. What matters is that I am here."

Mundu's suspicions were piqued even further by this. He knew Sera and she was not the dismissive type. She answered questions head on. This avoiding the question business was not at all her.

"But who are you?" Mundu asked setting down the food and standing up.

"What do you mean, 'who are you'? You know who I am. Why are you talking like this?"

Sera reached for one of Mundu's hands but he took a step backwards and out of reach.

"All I know is that you are not Sera. That is all I know."

At this Sera stood up. Took a step towards Mundu.

"You are tired. You should rest."

She took another step and then another and in that moment was standing inches away from him. She placed one hand on his chest, the other on a cheek. When Mundu didn't recoil, Sera ran her thumb along the line of his jaw.

"You are tired. You should rest." She repeated.

Munndu tried to protest but Sera cut him off by moving her hand from Mundu's cheek to the back of his head and on her tip toes, pulled him in for a kiss.

The lips that kissed Mundu's lips were Sera's lips, the taste of Sera's lips was Sera's taste, the scent of Sera's skin was Sera's scent, the heart that pounded in tandem with his was Sera's heart. Everything, absolutely everything told Mundu that the Sera standing in front of him was in fact Sera and so closing his eyes, Mundu kissed her back.

From close-lipped to open-mouthed to deeply passionate; the couple moved from standing to kneeling to trying to find enough space on the mat harbouring all the food to spread themselves out on. Which they did; Sera on her back, Mundu on top of her.
At this point though, Mundu paused. This was as far as the two had ever gone and he wasn't sure whether...

But he need not have worried though because as if anticipating Mundu's line of thought Sera once again placed a hand on the side of his face and looking up into his face whispered soothingly,

"It's ok...it's ok. Now kiss me."

And so Mundu, ignoring the niggling finger of suspicion poking around at the back of his mind, leaned in and did just that.

Chemo Brain: Chapter 2

Kampala

January, 1994

The heat has swallowed up everything. Sucking up the air; sticking its sticky and sickly swollen fingers through countless windows and underneath countless doors. Asserting its throat drying dominance by cracking lips, slicking bed sheets and propelling sleepless souls from sweltering bedrooms to plastic cups and open fridges to cold veranda floors in search of some sort of relief.

None is to be had, however- the whole city is on fire.

Only the air conditioned will have a chance at rest tonight and Lord knows how those are but a precious few.

Even the ones with fans will probably burn because all they do is push the hot air around; moving it from here to there.

It is in this heat, this furnace of an existence that we once again meet Conrad and his two siblings. Him and his older brother Jacob in one room, sharing a bunk bed; and their sister, Connie, in another.

Their mother sleeps in the master bedroom at the end of the hallway, not soundly however, because whenever the space of mattress next to her is devoid of the warmth of her husband's body, soundly is an impossibility.

It is late, probably past midnight and a school night at that but none of the children are asleep. Connie reads by pocket torch, Conrad and Jacob talk in whispered tones of songs played on radios and grown up movies on VHS tapes watched at the neighbours’ house.

And then they hear it.

All four of them at the very same moment- and freeze.

The engine, the car door, the gate- he’s home and they all know that when he comes home this late, it means trouble.

Quickly and in spite of the heat the boys clench their blankets with trembling fists and cover themselves, turning their bodies so that their noses are facing away from the door and towards the wall.

Connie's torch produces a quiet Click! and it's thin beam of light is gone and both torch and book are tossed under the bed.

Their mother lies on her back, eyes wide open, chest heaving, ears tuned to hear every movement, every sound.

The jingle of keys, the front door opens and a giant of a man, in both girth and height stumbles in. He reeks of booze, of anger and of a hunger that only a woman’s body can satisfy.

We watch from a shadowy corner as the bumbling giant stumbles into the kitchen, barely manages the fridge door and rummages around in search of something to eat. What he finds is a plate made especially for him; rice, chicken, greens with sweet potatoes. The only draw back? It is cold and even though all he had to do is stick it in the microwave for two minutes, he didn't have the patience nor the mental dexterity to do so in his current state of inebriation.

The giant swears and tosses the plate of food across the kitchen, breaking it, painting the floor, counter tops and even cupboard doors with bits of food.

He stares at the mess he has made for a moment and then like a flipped switch decides that he wasn't hunger for food anyway. He was, however, hungry for something else.
With swaying steps, bumping into things, he makes his way to his bedroom. We follow him. He opens the door and closes it behind him.

A deep sense of foreboding plunges my heart into a well filled with dread. Something bad is going to happen, I just know it. And so I hesitate entering the room, lingering before the shut door, reaching out for your hand with bated breath, hoping against hope that my fears are wrong.

I wait for a minute; maybe three and just as I'm about to let out a sigh of relief, the screaming begins.

Chains… w/ Corrine Bailey Rae (Interlude)

An Aside: This one...this one is for Moses Serubiri.


I said grace for her heart with a shrug and a steak knife. I like steak knives and even though they can be unwieldy to use at times when they’re sharpened to pointed perfection, they can be pretty fun too.

There were seven of us at the table that evening and as blade tip pierced still beating flesh, I played hide and seek with a dark, spry smile and watched the others howling and hooting and chomping at the bits like a pack of ravenous dogs.

“Hunger. Hunger you will not stay here for long.” I thought as I divided the heart into seven healthy, even chunks. Raw, just the way they liked it.

They say that seven is the number of perfection, of completeness…and hers was heart number seven. A long road it had been. Long and arduous with beautifully decayed corpses thrown carelessly into its trenches. Who knew what we would do after we had licked the last of her blood off our fingers and sipped the last of the wine we had bought specifically for this occasion? Life was an empty space when you had no soul to consume.

With plates in front of places it was not long before the other six had blood smeared faces, sadistic laughter cackling from throats as teeth worked and pieces of soul and spirit and love and life were devoured. I, however, took my time. Savored it. What was the hell was point if you neglected to embrace the pleasure to be found in it?

Knife, fork; left, right; cut, spear; chew, swallow. Sip…sip…sip…swallow and wash it all down.

No words were said, none were needed. We all felt it, the rejuvenation. And as the last of our plates were emptied, the Devil sat in the corner tapping his foot to Corrine Bailey Rae humming,

Chains…chains…chains…

Chemo Brain: Chapter One

An Aside: I owe the embankment of this journey to two individuals; Jason Ntaro & John Gatins. One a close friend, a brother and one of the most talented writers I’ve ever had the privilege to come into contact with. The other; also a writer. Also talented but unfortunately not one I’ve had the privilege to meet...Yet. It is because of these two individuals that I was able to write my first one thousand words of the year. Enjoy.

1
Kampala
January, 2013

We find ourselves, you and I, in a house that may have, once upon a year, been a home. Its worn carpets and stained sofa set and dusty picture frames housing faded photographs of forced smiles and strained poses, as well as the sagging cupboards full of chipped plates, mugs and glasses give a lengthy testimony to this. Now, however, there is a certain staleness and acridity about the place. Like either no one lives here and hasn’t for a long time or like someone does and just doesn’t care and as we look around and take notice of the empty packs of Dunhill Menthols, crumpled sachets of Royal Vodka, overturned and sometimes chip mouthed bottles of Nile Special, Club beer and Tusker Lager, not to mention the country of cigarette butts carpeting every available flat surface and the many, many tin foil takeaway containers crusted with and stinking of rotting left over food it becomes quite apparent that it is most certainly the latter. The real question now, is “Who?”

As I ponder this I hear a quiet sputtering of breath, regular and irregular simultaneously, (snoring maybe?) that sounds as if it is coming from somewhere around the house. A cursory inspection however, reveals that the most logical places, the bedrooms, are empty. A couch in the sitting room maybe? I stick a head stuck through a doorway- nope. Kitchen, dining room, bathrooms? Nein, nada, nope…but wait; there’s this last bathroom, the one opposite the “boy’s room”, let’s get a closer look.

Yup, there’s someone here and that someone appears to be quite unconscious. A man, this human paper weight seems to be; spread eagled on his stomach in a pool of his own vomit. Who is he? Well to be honest it’s kind of hard to tell from here but luckily for us I would recognize those scuffed and dirty red Tommy Hilfiger loafers anywhere…it’s Conrad.

Conrad, who amongst other things ( a poet, a priest and co-author of an unknown, unseen albeit quite often felt revolution that I am more than certain will one day reveal itself to be of great importance) both hates and loves his father in equal measure. Loves because, well, that is what a son is supposed to do isn’t it? Love his father. Hates, however, because ever since Conrad was in khaki shorts, knee high socks and black Bata shoes, his father; the kind and oh so gracious Honorable Kataga with his expertly hurled bottles, professionally placed insults and prodigiously vomit splattered carpets, tiles and hard wood floors has quite earned the fiery feelings of bile inducing revulsion that ignites the pit of Conrad’s stomach every time the man’s name is mentioned.

Now, we may wish to reach out and shake Conrad awake (Or at least try to because who knows how deep of a stupor he is in?) but we cannot because unfortunately for us we are no more than specters; no limbs, just senses; mere observers, denied participation in the events transpiring or about to transpire before us and so we have no choice but to watch and wait. And wait…and wait some more…and it feels like days have passed when it’s more like minutes when there is a long and continuous hoot at the gate.

I wish nothing more than that one of us could go and open it because I know as well as you do that our friend Conrad over here isn’t going anywhere any time soon but sadly we also know that there’s no opening that gate.

A few moments pass and then there’s another long hoot quickly followed by another shorter one and then finally the sound of someone outside of the gate opening it. Let’s go see who it is.

Black heels, black dress and black blazer. A visitor? She’s tall…or maybe it’s just the heels…but no, she’s tall…and pretty…and bears a striking resemblance to Conrad. She holds open one side of the gate and a maroon Rav-4 rolls through it. She doesn’t bother closing the gate and quickly click clacks her way towards the front door which is oddly already open.

Parked, the driver side door of the Rav-4 opens and a pair of black shoes, a black suit and a black tie climb out. Not so tall, not so handsome and although not such an obvious resemblance it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine one. Slamming the car door behind him he follows his younger sister through the front door, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping the space of neck just above the collar of his shirt and right below the beginning of his hairline.

“Conrad!”

But Conrad, of course, doesn’t answer. As he looks around the house he grew up in, Older Brother lets a string of expletives tumble out of his mouth.

“How can he live here like this?”

He scoffs and shakes his head.

“The place is a fucking dump.”

Younger Sister let’s her gaze roam the room. She can’t dispute him on that but the truth is they don't have time for all of that. They are late and right now that is all that is on her mind.

“The service starts in half an hour,” Is all Younger Sister says in response. “Let’s find him and get going. Rad!”

She makes a move for the kitchen.

“Fine. I’ll check the bedrooms. You check the kitchen, bathroom, whatever.”

A few minutes later Younger Sister finds her twin brother.

“Jacob!”

“What?”

“I’ve found him! In the boys’ bathroom! Hurry!”

And Jacob does, finding Younger Sister kneeling, trying to shake Conrad awake.

“Move.” He commands and gently leads his sister out of the way. He takes off his coat and hands it to his worried looking sister who takes it wordlessly.

He hurriedly rolls up his sleeves and glances at his watch to see how much time they had before their father’s funeral begins: 17 minutes and counting. Grunting, Jacob bends and lifts Conrad up off the ground.