To a Black Christian woman,

Your skin became an altar

With sacrifice upon sacrifice presented to God.

(like) A living slaughter

Made whole by the – not a – mortal cord

Made immortal in your heart by colours of you

When you tell your saviour, “you are all I want in you”

Dear Chocolate Chistian Woman,

Time doesn’t come late;

Only men do

And women too

But when Your Creator, you behold

It would be the sweetest taste to hold

Like chocolate

But with a better fate

photocredit: Black Christian Woman

​The writer, the Righter and the Rite of writing

Disclaimer: This claim is for the writer I have become. If it looks like you, somehow, then you too are a writer like me. That makes two.

                                                       Who is the writer? 

The writer is the man and the updated man: (wo)man.  

The writer is the reader too bored of been the receiver. The writer is ready to deceive and be deceived too. The writer is a bridge between two worlds, sometimes between more but these worlds are seldom visited. The writer is a tourist with nothing but memories. 

The writer is blind but sees all. 

The writer is a prophet with no prophecies for self. The writer has a goal or goals but has a score of problems. From addictions with perfect diction to obsession with obscene natures, the writer tries to be human but sometimes, fails to answer the question: who is (wo)man?

The writer is right but then again the writer is wrong. The wrong song, sung; the wrong tongue, untamed. The writer is the idea, the dare devil, the fretful being, the paradox, the last mistake and the first morning mist with an ache. 

The writer is all and these days, none. Nonetheless the writer is the anointed and the annoyed. The writer has a reason to exist and after this is settled, the writer knows where the exit is (the writer is the one that doesn’t use that option).

The writer is the catalyst, the writer is the analyst, the writer is the least of the worries of the righteous but the writer is a wheel, with a drive. Folly drives the writer away, wayward thoughts tempt the writer. The writer is the tempter, the trumpeter, the puppeteer, the prompter, the trouble and the bubble ready to burst. The writer is the right person who knows but sometimes battles to do.

The writer lacks and has pigment. 

The writer is a filament, a dream, a tree when it has not been trimmed. The writer is a forge, a fire that sometimes burns self. The writer is the friend, fiend but not the end