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.

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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.

Pieces 

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.

Your Hiding Place

Your hiding place, Oh Lord
brings chains to the fire of your glory
Into the golden of your beautiful garden
All accusations against me turn into praises

Your hiding place, Oh Lord
Brings limits into the golden of your light
In the brightness of Your countenance
Everything and anything bows
To proclaim that you alone are God

Your hiding place, Oh Lord
Is to me as a brook is to the panting deer
The beauty of your light and love
Overwhelm my anxieties, fears and worries
I shall never want

Your hiding place, Oh Lord
Draws my enemies away from me to you
Their pursuits against me fail
As long as you are on the throne
And I’m stuck gazing at your glory

In Your hiding place, Oh Lord
I’m fed and nurtured
Fed off the fountain of life
Which makes all things NEW
Brought into Your fold and warmest embrace
And I shall wander no more
My thirst forever quenched

Your hiding place, Oh Lord
Is the safest place for me to ever be

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*

 

Omuka – MoRoots

If you have not listened to this song yet, you are safe and then you’re not. If you’ve listened to this song, you’re safe but you know you’re not.

The first eight bars of this song are enough for you to know how strong and addictive the impression this song will leave you with is. It starts slow, just the strings, nothing serious and then she…. She sings!

I wasn’t planning on talking about the lyrics here, and I won’t. But the very first line is the listener’s moment of truth. Where she takes you on a seemingly peaceful journey to a far away land. It always leaves me lucid, teetering at the edge of reality and very eminent trances. It is in this moment where the song will read you your rights, right before it arrests you.

In her own words, she says this song is a tale of distance and home!

“It’s about everything that I love about my motherland. When you’re here, you can’t stand it. When you’re away, you miss the heck out of it.”

And as she sings through  it all, you can feel, smell and touch the homeliness of this place she calls Omuka – home, you can feel if not see the distance that has her heart troubled so. It’ll make you nostalgic of a future you are yet to experience. One you only experience in your dreams.

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And just then, she beckons her listeners to sojourn with her in this dream.

I want to warn those that haven’t listened to this song yet. There are “Things You Shouldn’t Do/Have/Be” as you listen to Omuka.

  1. Don’t listen to it on a cold sunday afternoon. Don’t.
  2. You shouldn’t be single or recently heart broken and/or lonely. This is for your own health.
  3.  Discard all texts from past not-so-successful relationships.

If you choose to listen to it on a cold Sunday afternoon, grab a cold drink, your bae, set up the camper chairs and start dreaming. This song was written by a dreamer for dreamers.

Here is Omuka, listen and please leave your feedback in the comments section or you can tweet her @moroots.

Dream, Only Better

You love her, you do. I mean everyone can see it but her. You picture her every morning in your dreams and every where else there is for you to imagine her flawless self, slowly and fantastically being lavished by you in the arms of your care. Every day is a new chance at a new fantasy, fantasies have now built up, piled together now like old books on a shelf, are collecting dust.

You love her, you do. Every word she says, you record and replay over and over again (all she ever said was, “Hey, how are you today?”). But your peers would now believe beyond a shadow of doubt that you my friend, are the linguistic guru. You made believe that you can speak every syllable exactly the same as she.

You can reign in life. But you want to start when she comes into your life first. You want to and you can break cultural, religious, and so many social paradigms but you have been  made to believe that it starts with her, so much so, there wouldn’t be any sort of variance between you and Dr. Kizza Besigye’s fans.

But, she. She wakes up every morning farther away from you. Curled up in someone else’s arms. Someone else doesn’t have to do extensive research into her like you because she is always with them.

So, I want to ask you my dreamer, who wakes up with your dreams curled up in their arms? I mean those that aren’t about ‘her’ mate. Who is going to change the world the way you would? I’m saying, dream on. Just dream better. Dream about you being the best you can be. See that sunset? That is your chance at being a new you. Get up, dust yourself and wait excitedly for the dawn, reach out to the skies because you shine brighter out there. And as you reach out to the skies, maybe she’ll be one of the stars you’ll run into.

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