Brownie Points

It is the morning after,  You half naked and full of eyes, Look at me. Stare at me, And I avoid. My eyes  Purposely miss yours, As if we hadn’t spent the night Before looking into each other, Searching for each other. I think I saw too much  Of myself in you. Our hands became…

The Love I Thought I Deserved

Over six years ago, in the middle of my first year in university and after my first silent protest, I got up the courage to tell my mother of the sexual violence that happened to me as a child. Her reaction was silence. Followed by demands to know who hurt me. I refused to tell…

Dis-Tract-Ion

  I find myself in a town outside Dar es salaam, In a motel. Naked, Smoking a cigarette with a half empty bottle of gin. I remember exactly what happened here last night: Nothing. Maybe a bit of porn and masturbation. But apart from that, I’ve been trying to figure the math behind rain, And…

Memories of My Father

My father calls me in and i am five years old. He places me infront of him, in the living room of our old house in Sinza and stares me dead in the face. My mother is busy being a mother in the house and my younger sister might be getting fed or bathed. Our…

The Color Of Pain

My mother always wore her pain on her sleeves. Except on public holidays, When friends and family came over. On these days she wore them on her eyes, At the back of her sockets. And if you paid attention, during the saying of grace, or the passing round of food, it would creep up on…

How It Feels To Say “I Love You”

Remember the first time we tasted sour worms, how the insides of our mouth tensed up and curled in, how our tongues grew a thousand spikes that could taste sweet, sour and salty at the same time? We wanted more, even though the more we ate the more our tongues made ridges and valleys and…

Claiming

We meet once upon a time, not too long ago. In a train. In a womb. At the beginning, in motion. Your hands dance, my body moves, my eyes move across the boarders of your body. We dance, we meet, we play.   The art of building love often demands a foundation of trust. I…