I fell and I broke something. But, I couldn’t tell because, I kept running from Your love and grace. I’m the eagle whose wing broke, I limped to my end.

What was my end? I asked over and over  again with no definite answer. They swarm around me, spat in my face, made me out to be the most disgusting thing they ever saw. 

All I dreamed of was, to Exit. Walk away. Give them all they’d been asking for, of me, for all these days. For me to be as gone with the wind as the matyrs, only I was a villain and it had been written in stone. I had to know, rest they didn’t, till I understood, I was worse than the ugliest excuse.

I didn’t have the will to live, I didn’t know who was for me and who wasn’t. So, I looked up, gathered my rugs around me, clung to my cross, sprung myself up, and limped to my end – Calvary.

A special friend told me, “you gotta find Jesus brother.” I knew and understood what he meant, but, I knew I didn’t make it through all of that alone. Jesus had already found me, whether I knew it or not, given me strength to weather the storm. And, atop His wings, I had been mounted. I had not been lost, I had already been found. Hallelujah! 

He had stirred up the waters, the good, the bad and the ugly, I bled out unforgiveness, bitterness , pride, and, I limped on.  

He gathered me in a corner, the one I knew was my undoing, He embraced and smothered me, and suffocated me with His love and He turned it all around. All fear, discrimination, forms of abuse, betrayal, He turned it for me when it was against me. 

There, that’s my King, Calvary limping to 

His end, or so they thought. Because He was here already, He walked with me, cross in tow, limp, limp, limp, away we went. 

And now, I  will limp, limp, limp. Until, He fully heals me, I will limp, limp, limp, limp.  . .

I know, I’ll be loved with my limp. I’ll be used with my limp. I’ll be honored with my limp. I’ll be favored with my limp. For those that don’t know love, they’ll despise me with my limp. And, it won’t matter!


See You Again 

When, I see you again, I’ll want you to know that silence was the wisest of them all. It is just what you needed for me to totally forget what holding you used to mean.

When, I see you again, I know your smile will irritate me more than before. But, my smile will be the least thing to expect.

When, I see you again, I know you’ll understand that I decided to forget about you, and no, I chose not to lose my sanity over trying to pluck every piece of your brain that lived in my memories.

When, I see you again, you’ll know, my guitar was all that remembered you, prayed for you and wrote poetry to your name all night long, while I was busy getting drunk to the sounds and moans it made.

When, I see you again, I’ll be glad not to recognize the very voice that bore my nightmares all the while. 

When, I see you again, you’ll know and taste my tears, these that dried because you were in other’s arms while my heart desperately begged to be held by you. And yes, I’m outcried, but you’re yet to be. When I’ll see you again.

I learned how to use the pain you gave freely, I’m glad you didn’t have better use for it. I put it to good use, and there, that’s the smile on my face it bore. These are the wounds on my heart it licked dry. 

I pray you learn to hand out enough pain to your next and the next. Only then will you know how cold and lonely it can get when you’ve given away all of the one thing you were ever capable of giving – Pain. 

– J

Untitled 3 – #UgBlogWeek 

The end of the road isn’t normally narrow. The end of a day should not be mellow. The end of a regime isn’t meant to be the shallow end. The end of the tunnel is never the focal, or is it? Or the light thereof, brightest?

The end of her heart seemed to not agree. It felt narrowed, so mellow, hollow, if not empty. Nothing made sense except to a small extent, the one, now, oh so dim, ray of hope she had, lit up to date by the scriptures she’d always treasured.

The meaning of which, she agreed with the rest of the world, she didn’t need. Only the experience of it. The tears, had run out but none made cancer ever gentle to her 20- something year old son. 

Two young daughters he had, a beautiful wife in a beautiful home. A flourishing and ever growing stretch of youth, learning daily from him. Forging ways forward in the kingdom and their lives, off the counsel and wisdom he gave.

Years of suffering with a number of ailments herself, she’d prayed and asked to give her life for his. Only, nobody listened. The sound of her heart breaking and shattering was so loud as she watched her son painfully breathe his last. 

Oh, she cursed everything that took him away from her, from his daughters. She cursed cancer for stealing the light in his eyes, she lamented. Nobody knew or felt the pain. Only his wife, now the widow. Sigh!

Cancer is a curse that should never visit your house, rest in peace George Lwanga.

Untitled 2 – #UgBlogWeek (#OryemaReturns)

The evening skies were extra starry, so bright and right or ripe for some cheesy mischief. It had been quite the silence, so, he stretched his arm out, only to find her frozen fingers. Startled, she disguised her wandering attention with a near-whisper scoff. 

He scooped her closer and went on to muse about the brightness of the midnight sky. He searched in the dark for her eyes halfway into his musing, It hit him, she’d been here but not exactly been. Her eyes or the hollow whites he stared right into, spoke so loud that an ugly ache bitterly etched and ebbed right in the middle of his chest. 

He stared blankly, wanting and craving so much to ask a million questions but not knowing how to even start. Why was she this cold? Why had she, with time, slowly scooted farther away into the dark night? Why was her mind wandering away yet she’d invited him here? He needed to know, so he decided it didn’t really matter how that happened. He was going to know!

He kissed her forehead, and just then he noticed the tears; which now freely flowed uncontrollably. 

Man. The questions he now had would for sure have proven very useful in trying to explain why people would demonstrate against the recent U.S elections result.

She’d silently hoped he’d see her pain sooner, but it had taken the fool three grand stories, a thousand twitter trailer jam sessions, a couple of nonsensical soccer jokes, a huge cup of untouched and already molten ice cream for him to notice. Who created men? She wondered. For what it was worth, she knew if tonight went well, it’d be the last she’d see him.

A couple more minutes of disturbing silence. She knew she’d have to come out straight and say it, caring not for what might happen thereafter. If anything, she knew she’d suggested they come to this hill intentionally. It wasn’t as steep as the rest, if anything were to happen, she’d not be hurt as much, she hoped.

Twisting out of his now-very-possessive hold, she wiped her eyes and looked away into the dark, past his shadow and she whispered, “Oryema, Geoffrey Oryema is coming back home”


Untitled – #UgBlogWeek

The taste of the last ounces of that poison (we’ll call it poison because it’s illegal) is fading by the minute and she’s still standing, stark sober and unphased. It works like a charm, they said. Her pain overshadowed whatever effect any drug could ever have. 

She drags her bloody body down the street toward her last painful draw of breath. The rain furiously coating her burning anxiety, she couldn’t have cared less about how ruffled her hair now was. Having relied mostly on liquor and any abuse-able drug available on the market  (black), nothing had brought her anywhere closer to the last straw, she had had it.

There she stood in the middle of the road, the pain of having to admit to herself that she had lost all her wits. She knew it was all her fault. She let it happen. Saw the signs, and she just let herself slip deeper into this black hole.

No one had had the time to listen to her distorted and uncoordinated rumblings about a darkness that existed in a seemingly perfect and healthy relationship. 

“It’s just an episode” they said. Rubbishing it off, drawing conclusions about how she must feel. When they were kind enough, they’d suggest how she was supposed to feel or treat the same fool who had found a perfect landing for his fists whenever he felt the urge.

Her agony now painted the skies a shade of grey, darker than the demons that haunted her. Slowly, as life slipped out of her, a bright red smile crept up on her as she saw a bright light come ever closer. And a strong angel towered over her with his protective woolen wings.

She gathered up all her strength and whispered to him, “I waited all my life for you.” She knew then, she’d never have to cry again.


I’m four doors down, memories of the sweet things we did in this house now taste so beautifully sweet and sour, so many memories haunting the glass walls of my already failing memory bank.

Three doors down, three hours later. Midnight looming. I’m as blank as I can ever get. There is nothing in here. Not the ghosts of us. Not so much as a thought of your smile. We’re stuck somewhere between a Friend and Foe. Where did all I want to say run away to? 

Two doors down, I’ve never seen you cry. Old friend, in your sweet time, I’d thought we’d share a good good bye or maybe never have to say good bye. Can I wipe your eyes? Which marathon track confused my words, will they be enough to cover up the wounds?

One door down and all I’d ask is why you’d only want to give me faith when all I want is you. I came all the way down the path of this journey, the path of your daring heart, not for faith. I just want truth. Proof. You.

My heart’s here, plastered all over the walls of this beautiful brick makeshift. It won’t stop three doors down there, not four doors down. It isn’t there to begin with.

Feet, oh my feet, don’t fail me. Hands, oh my hands, don’t fail me. This heart of mine, who shall collect it and place it back into this now empty and freezing vacuum? 

I’m here. Bleeding hands. Raining eyes. Stormy and flighty feet. Heavy laden with the silence. The cold cold stares, I can’t afford them. I’m broken, can’t you see? Collect me. Warm me. Break me maybe, maybe some other day. Today though. Collect me, my bloody pieces, littered all over the rosy garden of your beautiful mind, mend this heart with the bright glimmer in your eye.

I heard the song on the tip of your soul’s tongue, it’s all I want to hear. Sing me to sleep. Lend me a little bit of your trust. Only for tonight. Only for tonight.


Dear Diary,

For the past few weeks, I’ve thought about nothing but her.

Her curls that were to grow into locks later. Her smile that brightened with every passing day until it lay lifeless and immobile.

I’ve thought about pain, grief, hurt and questions. Questions I know too well not to ask. But every time I see how a friend is handling the transition into a Julie-less world, I can’t stop myself.

I hate to see people grieve. It is painful to watch people tear at their hearts, trying to soothe aches they can never reach.

Maybe Job had it easy. It itched and hurt, yes. But he could reach it, he was able to scratch it, he could afford himself a bit of relief, faint as it may have been.

This feels like a one-hundred-year-old wound on the inside, embedded deep within, in parts I can’t reach.

Where do I go from here?

Today, I will myself to let go and live a little, mend my broken relationships and make them worth having.

Julie, Until we meet again, it was and still is so real!

Dear daddy

Everyone had a beautiful story to write about their fathers and at my loss for words, this quote became it.

“Any man can contribute genetic material and ‘father’ children but being a father means far more than that. It’s about protecting, nurturing, and providing for your children. Teaching and ‘Leading’ them to what it feels like to be loved and valued” – John Mark Green

I’ve heard arguments about who a good or bad father is, but I think it all comes down to which side of the coin one chooses to be. Truth is, you were never there, you’ve never been.

I won’t lie, I was never sad that you were gone. Mum was the kingslayer, the best father I could ever have asked for. If anything, I’m really grateful to you for choosing her.

As you rested in death, I knew no one else would have been a better father. You have proved, over time that you were better a father to me dead than alive.

Daddy (I can call you that, right?) I got to learn what it meant to be a man from a woman who crossed rivers, plateaus, deserts and anything else that the world threw at her. I mean, had you been around, I think I’d never have known or tasted that much love and sacrifice.

You gave me the opportunity to know God’s love, to love Him how He’d want me to. I thank you for letting Him be the man in my life. I mean, if there was anything you ever did for us all, this was the greatest. We’ve been loved, nurtured, trained, protected and provided for, through the years.

You taught me the beauty in sacrifice. If it ever comes to it, (which it won’t), that I should get out of God’s way so he can raise my beautiful children. I’ll do it without hesitation. I’m glad that you chose not to have your way.

From me, for the first and very last time, happy father’s day to you. Thank you so much for contributing your genetic material to me, who am I?


The Side-Dish Theory

Love – what is love? isn’t this the 21st-century question? Doesn’t ‘LOVE’ feel like it’s heaven sent, then it rides or crawls through hell for a lot longer than it is ever enjoyable? Yes? I feel you. So, here goes.

True love (or the real soul mate business) is simply based on these three pillars; accepting love, submission and honour. For any relationship to flourish, a man has got to love his woman. The lady, in turn, submits to the man. When she submits to her man, she honours him. And we all know how hard it is to submit to something you have not accepted.

The Josh Agaba side-dish theory is based on a single assumption; the man loves the woman.

Let the main chick be A. The side dish will be, B.

  • The man loves A, this love that he offers is a sweet scent/Incense. But A doesn’t accept his love and It goes unused or unclaimed. Maybe because she thinks he loves her too much, maybe.
  • The frustration then builds, the man will start acting like a boy in a topless bar. As he continues on with his travels, he meets B, there’s a spark and they try not to ignite the flame, but they nurse the flame long enough.
  • B notices this unused resource and she wants it for herself. She decides to do everything there is for her to do so she can taste or be adorned by this love. To have and own it. Before long, B will accept this love that was originally meant for A. B will then submit and honour ‘their’ man.

Once the deed is done, B will be adorned by this sweet scent (love) that had originally been meant for A. This scent will embed itself in B‘s DNA (this is when the soul-mates theory is thrown into the mix), there will be nothing left for the man to offer A. The dilemma here is, he’ll still be with A and he’ll have his other side business with B.

A will believe he cheated. Did he?

A will fight for him like she owns him, she won’t know how she had negligently given B express access to what was hers in the first place.  And just like that, A played the losing game and may forever be the victim of her actions.

Side note: Dear A, do you remember the day that he came back home and you knew something was off? Is it too late to tell you sorry? Maybe

*Opens comments section*


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