The Wrong Woman

Happy December People! It snowed yesterday. I have this love-hate relationship with snow. Can it come without the cold please?

Anyway, it has been an amazing year and God has been God-perfect. Stuff happens to us, a lot of stuff that the world tells us is just wrong and we agree. The truth of the matter is wrong is only wrong if we let it be wrong (Aristotle in the house yo!). Today, choose to right those wrongs, choose to see things the way your Heavenly Father does -

'And we know that in all things (wrong or right), God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.' Romans 8:28

Enjoy the story folks


He knew she was the wrong woman by the third day of their marriage.

The realization didn't really come to him as a shock. It was more of a dawning; like how you know the sun is going to rise so you are not even the least bit shocked when sunlight nibbles at your neck.

For someone like him who loved numbers and who saw percentages and probabilities in every scenario, he had considered this possibility many times. There were millions of women in the world after all; a couple hundreds of thousands of marriageable age in his vicinity of Lagos. What were the chances that he would get lucky and marry the right one out of all those numbers? Mighty slim! And the probability that he would make an error? A resounding 99%! He had done the calculations many times, you see, so he knew exactly what the numbers were.

It was the third day of their marriage and the second day of their honeymoon. She was swimming in the pool while he read an article in the Wall Street Journal. So what if he was on honeymoon? That didn't mean the world had ended or that he didn't have stocks to think about. Aisha had given him hell when he put the newspaper in their beach bag as they started out in the morning.

'We are supposed to be honeymooning not working,' she had said rolling those huge eyes of hers. 

He was glad now that he had ignored her. He found the pool boring. He was on the Investing page when he heard his wife laugh. He glanced away from the paper for a second to see what was causing her amusement and it was at that very moment that he knew for sure just how wrong he had been about his choice of life partner.

 

She was talking to an old couple she had only just met and they were all already acting like firm friends. Anyone else would look at the scene unfolding before him and be enamored by the beautiful woman who could put an old couple at ease so quickly in this place where only the young seemed  welcome. Anyone else would consider themselves lucky to have her in their life. Anyone else would think her the perfect choice to spend the rest of their life with.

 

But he wasn’t anyone. He was Nefe and all he could see was a woman who was nothing like him; a woman who snored like 3 pigs at once and kept him up at night, a woman who warmed up to people easily while he preferred to stay in the background, a woman who didn't know the first thing about bonds or stocks and fell asleep when he talked about his favorite subject, a woman who was definitely not the woman of his dreams but had pushed her way into his reality. 

It was a mistake of gigantic proportions.

She was bringing the old couple to meet him and Nefe swore under his breath.

‘Suck it up,’ his head told him. ‘This is you for the rest of your life - schmoozing with the old and senile!’

His heart laughed at him as he shook hands with the old couple and heard himself invite them for dinner at their rental home later that night.

 As they ate, he thought about how the situation could have been far worse. For one, he could have married a woman who didn't know how to cook, Nefe pondered as he listened to the old couple talk about their grandchildren.

'So how many children do you both want?' The old lady asked them. Her name was Anne.

'Nefe wants one but I want a full house so we might settle at ten,' Aisha said.

Everyone else laughed while Nefe's head whispered childcare costs to him.

He waited until the couple left before going for a walk himself. Aisha didn't even ask why he was going on a walk without her. The other women he had dated would have insisted on coming along for the walk. But not Aisha. She was just wrong on so many levels.

He walked to the beach and found somewhere he could sit and watch the stars away from everyone else.

The truth was that she was as wrong for him as much as he was for her. He wondered if she had come to this realization as well and if she had, whether she would consider leaving him? His heart missed a beat as the thought came unbidden.

He walked back to the rental a lot heavier and weighed down by much more than beach sand.

She was reading a book in bed when he walked in.

'Hi Baby' she said, her eyes never leaving her book.

'What is the probability that you married the wrong man?' He asked as he leaned on the dresser.

'99%.' She answered without missing a beat or looking away from her book. 

'I don't want ten children.'

'I do – I can do three myself and we will adopt the other seven,' She replied, still on her book.

‘Where is my Wall Street Journal?’

‘Where it belongs –in the dustbin. You can play stocks when we get to Lagos,’ She answered as she turned a page. 

'You really shouldn't be so friendly with strangers. They could have been serial killers.'

'They are the same age as your grandparents.' She placed the book by the lamp and yawned.

'Dinner was delicious. You cook well.'

'I ordered takeout Oga! Abi since when do I cook Chinese food?' 

'I hate you, you know right?'

'The feeling is mutual. Come to bed, you weirdo!'

He started to laugh as did she.

There are very few things in life to which there are no wrongs and only rights; foremost amongst them is love. This was a truth that they both knew.

By the third day of their marriage, he knew he had married the wrong woman but from day one, it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was love – that he chose to love her despite everything and that she chose to love him too. It would be the only thing that would matter till the curtain call of their lives.

 

 Song of the day : Emeli Sande - Clown

Painting Wura

She is wearing one of her 'cover-up' t-shirts; those pieces of clothing that she is
convinced hide the things she wants hidden.

The soft, drooping mounds with tips that burn holes in my chest every time we dance.
The heart that has been broken and put back together again by the same ancient culprit-love.

The ripples on an otherwise smooth belly - a testament to how nothing escapes the law of gravity, how nothing escapes time

She is convinced that clothes can conceal these secrets, that mere cotton can stand between her and a man that knows what he wants, that all the things she wants hidden can be completely cloaked by silk and wool.
 
The t-shirts come in different colors.

Yellow for good days. For days spent idling away in bed; me with one hand up her shirt, tracing my way into the hidden recesses of her heart. Yellow for a woman named after gold, yellow for her smile that is sunshine and tastes like sweet lemons.

Red for in-between days. For days when there is blood, love and fire. For days when love is hard to do but we do it anyway.

Gray for the cloudy days, For the days when she hides under more than just t-shirts, days when I am the enemy, a mere thief who is trying to break through enemy lines and into her heart. Gray for storm clouds that block the sunshine.

"Can we take off the t-shirt" I ask on yellow days.

"Why? Taking off my panties isn't enough?" She asks, smiling the answer I want to hear.

"Can we take off the t-shirt?" I ask on other days.

Red days are tougher than yellow days but the t-shirts eventually find their way to the floor too.The gray days are the days that I curse him; the man that had her heart first. Gray days are the days that I curse myself too; for not getting here on time, for waiting till the autumn of my life to find the woman I was meant to spend spring and summer with.

 
I fell in love with Wuraola on a yellow day, married her on a red day; I will never leave her even if all she has left are days the color of her graying hair.

Lately though, there have been more gray days than any other and even as we sit here drinking wine and smiling at each other, I am not still sure what day today will turn out to be.

She is wearing a color I have never seen her in. It suits her, this color. It mutes the age that is beginning to show up on her skin. It helps me imagine what she might have looked like as a young woman. It is a good color but I'd rather have her naked. I haven’t seen her naked in a while.

The new t-shirt also fits better than all of the other shirts; I can easily make out thethe ravages of time. She doesn't seem to be trying to hide anything with this one.

 "Nice t-shirt" I say to her.

She says nothing, sips some more wine and smiles at me from beneath the dregs of her wine glass.

"What are we celebrating again?" I ask . She is sitting across from me, her small frame swallowed up by our sofa.

The sofa is the only thing in this house that is jointly ours. Everything else are mementos from the lives we lived previously, without each other. We haven’t gotten around to redecorating even though it has been 6 months since we started living together. We keep butting heads over colors.  

I like it when she sits on our red sofa. I like it even better when she is naked on it and I cannot tell where my love begins and hers, ends.

"Your nipples are at attention," I say when she ignores my question.

 I dodge the brown throw pillow that she directs at my head and it tears open, unleashing the God-knows-what material it was stuffed with. I have never liked that color anyways - maybe we can buy nicer colored pillows someday.

"Look what you have made me do now. You are such a dirty old man."

The silvery ball of curly hair on her head  is shaking with laughter and her eyes are twinkling. She is happier than I have seen her in a long time but I am still not sure what color today is.

Pink is the color of this new t-shirt. It is also the color of scar tissue, the color of wounds that are ready to begin healing, the color of quiet, unconditional love, the color of hope...

She finishes her wine and gets up from the sofa. She walks towards me slowly and deliberately. I do not have to ask to take off this t-shirt.

When our hearts are back to beating out their normal rhythm, she tells me about the lump she found last month.

"The results came back today. The lump is benign." She says.

"You tell me now?" I ask incredulously.

"I didn't want to scare you," She says.

"You scare me every day already but do you see me acting scared?"

She laughs again, that tinkle that I could hear anywhere, even in my grave and my heart would beat faster.

"I got you a pink t-shirt too. I know it’s a girly color but you can wear it indoors..."

"And the doctor is absolutely sure that the lump is benign, right? We can do more tests just to be sure…" I interrupt.

"Yes, yes he is sure. We are ‘in the pink’! "

"Then I will wear a thousand pink shirts anywhere, anytime."

"As you should, " she says, just in case I had any doubts about who is queen and what colors her knight will be wearing.

We laugh and she falls asleep. I stay up a little longer to silently say my thanks for this new color in our lives; it could easily have been black, the color of mourning or some more gray. I say my thanks for pink days, for benign lumps, for wounds that are ready to heal, and lastly, for the extra time that I have been given, with the woman that is my rainbow.

Song of day: Beautiful Nubia - What a Feeeling

It Rains When You Dance

So this one is for Mr Kiah. 

For you my darling, a thousand times over...


When I walk into the room, she is still writing. Sheets of paper lie forsaken all around her chair. The waste basket is brimming with even more scrunched up balls of paper. I wonder about the trees they came from. If there ever was a house deserving to be haunted by the ghosts of trees, it is this one. 

My wife is a writer. 
She prefers to be a writer the old fashioned way. 
This translates into weekend shopping lists with requests for pens, pencils and of course, more dead trees.

I can tell things are going better. The unruly curls that had previously formed a halo around her head are now tucked behind her ears. She isn't nibbling on pencils and pens like she was when I checked in a couple of hours ago. Her head is cocked to one side and her lips are moving silently. She does that sometimes; reading aloud to herself to see if the words fit.

Behind her, the sun is out and the rain clouds have moved house to some other part of the world. I can hear the sounds of children coming out of houses that can no longer contain their excitement. It is the first rain of the year. There will be little ponds on the road to explore and splash in.

She taught me to dance in the rain, to move in sync with the rhythm of the earth, to open my mouth and drink from heaven, to break the rules, to be more than the world expects of me.

It will break her heart to know it rained while she stayed in this room and put more trees to death.

"Has it stopped raining?" She says to me. There is a half smile on her face. She has caught me longing for another dance.

"You knew it was raining?" I ask her in return.

"I always know when it is raining."

She sighs and stands to stretch her tired body.

"Come, come, let's dance." She beckons to me with hands stained with blue ink.

"It isn't raining." I say matter of factly.

"Do you  dance when it rains or does it rain when you dance?" She asks winking at me.

I glance outside the window and it is darker than it was a little while ago.

I hear the screams of the children as they seek shelter inside the houses they had been set free from only a few minutes back.

I walk to my wife and hold her in my arms and we dance to the rhythm of the rain.

"Is it a good story?" I whisper.

"Who knows?" She answers.

I breathe in deeply and am overwhelmed by the scent of all that is right with the world- of trees, of paper, of ink, of rain, of someone who is as in love with me as I am with her...

We dance and it rains.

Song of the Day: Elton  John - Can You Feel the Love tonight

My dreams are made of...

Today I danced to 'white people' music (as my Italian-American friend from New York called it) and  loved every bit of it.

Many things have changed about me since I packed my bags and left Lagos.

I can dance to white people's music and not feel awkward
I can see through people's bullshit a lot easier
I can be Nigerian and love it
I can talk gibberish to cute dogs and not feel weird and so alone about it
I can be comfortable in my own skin and accept my stretch marks, my baby fat, my D cups, my thick grass of hair....

Many things have stayed the same since Muritala Mohammed bade goodbye to my Burberry gym bag...

My eyes still shine 
I can still write up a storm
I am still stubborn as they come
I am always, and always will be in the corner of the underdog
I am a lover...still

The list goes on...

The weeks before graduation are some of the most hectic and emotionally draining. I have asked myself  so many times if these two years have been worth it. So many of my friends got married within these two years. So many have babies or are preggers (never mind that almost all my friends are older than I am-long story, will tell another day) So many got job promotions. So many dreams accomplished...

I tell myself this is what I wanted, that this was my dream; the chance to live and work somewhere else, the opportunity to learn Chinese and Thai and Spanish ('hello' and 'how are you' are my limits so don't start a conversation biko!) , the experience of meeting and falling in love with some of the most wonderful people ever...
I tell myself all the time that so many people would give anything to be in my shoes.
I tell myself so many things these days; all these talking to myself, it keeps me from going crazy, it does...

It however doesn't stop me from dreaming about little Kiahs who can say hello in Chinese, Thai and Spanish. Or little boys with their father's smile and his way with poetry...

Life is beautiful.

Song of the day: The Lumineers- Hey Ho

Heaven’s Children

Happy Easter people...I am in love with this story like I haven't been in love with any story in a long time. I hope it makes you smile, more importantly, I hope it makes you hope...

A few minutes ago he had kissed her goodbye.

A few minutes ago, she had gotten into her car and pretended she was headed to work. He had done the same.

A few minutes ago...
Yet here they were, parked in front of a famous crèche in Ikeja.

She couldn't see him but he could, her. She wasn't trying to hide or be discreet about any of it.

Last week, Bode's colleague had casually mentioned seeing Imoke near the crèche his three year old son went. Bode had brushed it off until yesterday evening at church when someone else had mentioned the creche and Imoke in the same sentence.

It was one of the best known crèches  in town. Many people they both knew brought their kids there.

He could see why she chose to come here. It was peaceful despite the blaring of horns, the chattering of kids on their way to school, the yelling of harried parents hoping to drop off their wards on time…

It wasn't too hard to understand why she would come here. It wasn't too hard to understand why she stayed until the last child was safely cocooned in their classroom.

He was going to be late for work, He had foreseen that and so he called in sick. He wondered what excuse she gave her boss every morning for showing up late. Knowing Imoke and how highly regarded she was at work, he doubted that her tardiness mattered much.

He waited till the traffic of the parents and their children had thinned out before he got out of the car. It was June and yet it hadn’t rained in weeks. Bode wasn’t sure if it was the rain he missed or the woman who loved to stare out of their bedroom window and make up stories about the rain.

‘Maybe an angel is washing?’

‘Can you just come back to bed? Where in the Bible have you read that angels wash?’

‘How come their clothes are always pure white then?’

He would laugh then because he couldn't argue with that.

‘Maybe these are the tears of all the babies in heaven that can’t wait to be born.’

He would stop laughing and get out of bed to hold her.

‘Maybe it is just rain and God is telling you to stay home today, in bed with me.’

‘You wish…’

He knocked on the car window, startling her.

‘Open the door.’ He said when she wound down.

‘What are you doing here?‘ She asked as he made himself comfortable on the seat beside her.

‘I could ask you the same thing but I won’t.’ He answered.

She kept quiet then and they stayed that way for a while, both of them looking into the distance, into a future that might be devoid of the noise of children.

‘Did you see the little girl with the Power Puff school bag and pink ribbons?’ She finally said.

‘Yes. Like anyone could have missed her with that massive tantrum she was throwing? Her mother looked like she was just about ready to abandon her for good.’

They both laughed and he reached for her hand. Somewhere in the distance it thundered.

‘It is going to rain soon. We should get out of here.’

‘Yeah, I hope the kids aren’t frightened of thunder.’

‘Our kids won’t be.’ He said.

She didn’t reply.

‘We can adopt, we can do the whole surrogate mother route… Dammit we are Christians, Imoke, we believe in God, just because the doctors have said no doesn't mean God has said no.’

‘I know, Bode. It is why I come here every day before work. To imagine what it would be like when I have to drop them off. I come here in faith. I come here to remind God that I can do everything these mothers do and much more. I come here and I pray, promising Him, that even if our little girl has a twisted fashion sense and wants to wear Power Puff branded clothes to school, I will be nice and indulge her. I won’t force her to be anything she doesn't want to be. I will take good care of His children. I will be the best mother ever.’

The thunder was closer than before but there was still no sign of rain, except in their eyes. He wiped away her tears with his hand and she returned the favor.

‘I will race you home.’ He said.

‘Last one is a chicken and has to do dishes for one week.’

‘Deal. But you don’t get to start your car till I am in mine.’

‘I love you.’ She said.

‘More than words.’ He replied.          

They made it home before the babies in heaven, that were waiting to be born started to 
cry.



Song of the day: Donnie McClurkin- I 'll Trust You

Lucky

So there is this boy...

He is different from all the other boys
He is kinder than anyone else I know
He is smart
He is humble
He is patient, so annoyingly patient
He has the sweetest smile in the world

When he smiles, the pieces of my heart find their place in this puzzle that is me.

Sometimes I wake up and lie in bed, wondering how this happened.
I have taken love for granted before. Probably because it happened so easily the first time. And then I got burned, burned so badly I never thought I could heal. 

But here I am...all healed. Yes the scars are still here but they no longer serve to remind me of the pain, only of all I have to be grateful for.

He is my brother, my friend, my biggest fan, my biggest critic (yesterday he told me my story was ordinary!!!), my prayer partner, my lover, my hero,...

The Bible tells me God loves me; preachers preach it from their podiums; yet no time am I more sure of God's love than when someone created in His image shows it to me. I sincerely believe that is why God made more than one person- so when we doubt Him or His love for us, we can look into our neighbors' eyes and see His love reflected.

I tease him all the time about how very lucky he is to have me. The truth is I am the lucky one. I only have to look beside me and see God's love for me reflected in eyes more beautiful than the sunrise.

Song of the day: Donnie McClurkin- I'll trust You

Many Ways to Love You

Poetry isn't my strong suit. Even though I am in love with a poet and love his poetry and that of so many others. 

This is me trying to be amazing like the man in my life. If I have failed, I am glad that there are so many other ways to love him...


There are so many ways to love you.

By kissing your eyelids while you snore softly
By holding your hand when your world's turned upside down
By tracing the stubbornness that lines your jaw 
By cooking meals that you never eat and end up in the trash
By listening to the beat of your heart when you have forgotten the words to our love song
By saying goodbye even though my heart is breaking and it is the last thing I want to do 
By knowing that it is what you need, right now, more than you need me

There are so many ways to love you
It turns out that the best way is the hardest.

Song of the day: The Script- Six Degrees of Separation

Through the Looking Glass

There are many things she sees when she looks in the mirror. 

The child who lost a parent and disappeared in the grief that followed. 

The 11 year old who noone else saw except to wonder how she miraculously appeared at mealtimes.

The teenager who stuffed her mouth with sweets to drown the bitter taste that flooded her tongue everytime her father looked past her.

The young lady who rebelled against everything her father held dear just to get his attention; tattoos, minis, piercings, dyed hair, see-through clothes, nightclubs...

There are many things she sees when she looks in the mirror.

She has tried to show them to him but he pays her no mind. He sees none of it even though she has painstakingly taken the time to point them out to him. She has tried a few times to tell him the story behind each of the people that stare back at her fom the mirror. Each time, he has succummbed to sleep before she was finished with her tale.

At first, it annoyed her that the stories that had held so many spellbound bored him to sleep. Soon she had fallen in love with the man who slept through the retelling of her past but was awake for every second of her present.

'Zome' He calls to her from the bedroom where he is seated, reading a newspaper and drinking his coffee. She can see him from where he sits at the edge of the bed. He is more beautiful than anything she has ever seen.

'Yes!' she answers.

'How many more minutes till the pancakes are ready?'

She laughs at the joke; their joke. He teases her about the time she spends applying her 'pancake' and how it would have been better spent making real pancakes for breakfast.

She is still smiling when she turns her attention back to the mirror. There is someone new staring back at her; someone who outshines all the others and blurs their images into near nothingness. Through the looking glass,  a woman whose smile reaches her heart smiles back at Zome.

She places her hand on her belly and the woman mimics her. They both look down at the same time and smile even wider at the unseen child kicking his way into the present.


I wrote this for my friend Asiya...she is beautiful, she is strong and  she is a mom! :)

Song of the day: Mae- Breakdown

River of Love

My people...Una do oh!

The cobwebs in this space, while not as mighty as those on some other folks' blogs (T.Notes,Bee, Sir Farouk- take note) are getting annoying.

I have been writing...a lot...I am just putting them all up on Naijastories...

Today sha, i have written rubbish and i thought to myself who better than the members of blog world to share this with. I know you all love me regardless of whether I write better thing or not! So here goes...be kind in the comment box! Even Wole Soyinka doesn't write as much as I do. Better? Yes. More? No.

We walked to the river at our own pace

With only the birds of the air to witness our dedication.

We marched on resolutely

Determined to drink of the waters of love.

Laughter erupted from our bellies.

Tears of joy from our eyes.

Orgasms from our loins.

All of these, as we walked to the river.

We finally made it to the spot.

The place they said we could set out our roots and flourish.

But there was nothing to be found.

The waters had dried up.

The river had become a valley of bones.

'What is it that you seek?'

The bones asked us.

'Love, the end to sorrow.'

We answered.

'Then keep walking...

Love is a journey, ongoing.

But if it an end to sorrow you seek.

Then you are welcome to join us.'

We said our goodbyes by that dried up river.

Unable to see beyond those bones,

Unable to get past the end,

Unable to continue on the journey that is love.

We each took on different paths,

With only the birds to remind us

Of what it is that was left behind

At the river of love.

Song of the Day: Nelly Furtado- I'm like a bird

White, in size 8

I can't stop writing...apparently when it rains, it pours in my head.

I started to tell you a story but I looked into your eyes and it was empty. There was no fertile ground in your heart for the words I had to say; and so I made up another. This time, pure fiction. You laughed in the right places, made faces where necessary but your heart stayed unmelted.

I bid you goodnight with a kiss on the cheek. I hugged you tighter than i have ever done. I said all the right things to make you feel better. I held your hand for a little longer than I would normally do but your heart remained unmoved.

I lie in bed now and tell the story that i wanted to tell you tonight  to myself. It is a true story unlike the one I made up earlier. It is the story of how I have fallen in love with the sadness in your eyes. It is the tale of how my heart beat faster the few times you have ventured to smile since she left you. It is a narrative of how I want nothing more than to be enough for you.

There are some love stories with not enough hearts. There are some tales whose beginnings are but stillborn. There are some narratives whose times have not come.

I tell the story that was meant for you to myself. I listen in the silence that only night can bring and realize how much is missing from this tale. There is no theme, no plot, no setting. There is just you broken hearted and me, waiting in the wings to make it all better.

I smile to myself in the dark as I think of how much better this story could be with a little time. Your heart will heal.  You will forget the way she smelled.  The tears you will cry in days to come will drive away the emptiness from your eyes. The pain you will feel when you accept she won't be coming back will leave your heart  a fertile field for seed; seed that is me. 

I saw a new dress in a boutique window yesterday. It was in your favorite color and my perfect dress size. White for a clean slate, a new beginning; 8 for an unbroken circle, a regeneration… 

'Once upon a time, there was a white dress...'

A beginning as good as any...

Yes, I am a size 8! Finally! UK Size only oh! US size 6...so who wants to buy me a white dress?  :)

Song of the day:  One Nation Crew- Free

Love and its hiding places

They tried to get me to redesign. To change the wall papers that screamed silently of the passion we shared; 

Give away the curtains we played hide and seek with;
Have a yard sale for the dining table where we laughed, shared meals, made love... 
I told them that while they are at it,they might as well transplant the spot beneath my breast
I left everything the way it was.

She came home one rainy night
I couldn't tell her tears from the raindrops that fell from her hair.
I met her by the door and held her till my clothes were as soaked as hers were

I carried her just in case she changed her mind. Toweled her dry while kissing every inch of her skin. She pointed to the spot beneath her breast and said to me with eyes full of tears 'It doesn't hurt anymore' 
I held her a little tighter.

I watched her breathe all night and envied the air that she breathed. I wished I could to enter her body at will like it did. I would seek out the spot beneath her breast and no respiration process would ever dislodge me from where I call home.

I made her breakfast and kissed her hair as she laughed over my soggy eggs. She teased me about how nothing in the house had changed. I told her I dreamed she would be back. I did not want her feeling strange among things that had changed. Everything was the way she left it. She looked at me, pointed to the spot beneath my breast and said 'So long as It doesn't feel strange there, then its fine'.

I wept all over again, unable to believe the miracle that had led her home. This time she held me. 

We had a yard sale the next weekend! 

Song of the day: The Script - If you ever come back 

A Happy Place

Where the bed bugs don't bite

Where ice cream is a staple

and weight scales are a taboo                                                                       

Where i am me and you are you

and love is free

Where i get paid for doing what i love

Where i am still Cinderella

and midnight never comes

Where there is no hunger

Where there are no wars

No floods, no earthquakes, 

No disease, No death

No pain, No sadness

I am Cinderella

and midnight never comes

But midnight will come

It will steal upon us like the morning tide

disease, death,

pain, sadness

But before it gets here,

I will hold my prince and dance

And make enough memories to last me till dawn.

P.S For UY-Love you babes-my Cinderella always

and for all of you in love...even if its with yourselves :)

Song of the day: Boyzone- Everyday i love you

This Place

We are here again. This place I never thought we would find again. This place I never dared to imagine we would embrace again. This place far removed from eyes. Soundproofed aganist ears.But we are here. Better,stronger... Our special place. Only hearts glimspe it.

We made it back here. Depsite far removed once. Despite the wind that flung us to the ends of the earth.

We have found the impossible again. We will not question why. We will not bother with the unknown. The known is enough.

Lightning struck twice for us. And we will accompany it with thunder...

This place...love

Song of the day: This love, This heart-Phil Collins.

Secrets

Its been threatening to boil over these past few months...
It started with you forgetting to buy me pizza on the way back home. I felt you didn't care enough about me. After all i was hungry. Then i nagged you all day about watching the match the night before and hanging out with your boys while i stayed home watching episode after episode of Lost and feeling lost without you.

Somehow within a short time it felt like everything had changed. You couldn't do enough and neither could i. When you tried to talk to me i shut you out and said you were complaining. When i tried, it was nagging. We went everywhere together but it felt like we were worlds apart. I started seeing shadows where there were none. You covered up even the most innocuous action just so i wouldn't see shadows there too. It didn't matter. I saw them still. Like a cycle...

We used to be best friends. Not these strangers that tiptoe around each other for fear of cracking the thin ice that has replaced our strong foundation. I wake up at night sometimes and i try to trace the angles of your face. Nothing has changed there except am afraid you will wake up and think i am crazy. You used to wake up ask me if I've found what i was searching for. I used to say yes. I can't say that anymore.

So it finally happened this morning. I said so many things. you picked the keys and drove off. I cried a lot and swore i wouldn't care if you never came back. You came back late and slept in the other bedroom. You didn't eat the dinner i made. I gave it to the dogs. I took a walk through the streets of the estate. I thought about what i had to lose if i moved on. I thought about what i stood to gain. We were still both oh so young. We could always find other people to love. I looked at all the well lit houses. and wondered what sadness they covered. Heard the noise of the generators and wondered what sounds of the heart they hid.

Our people say "Asiri a bo o"... Its a prayer that your shame be not made public. Your secrets to remain secret. When you stop trying, your secrets won't stay that way. We all have secrets.One of Mine is that i am a stupid woman who is letting her feelings and hormones determine her path.

I made my way back home. I closed the doors. I made my way to the bedroom where you were pretending to sleep and i took your face in my hands and promised myself "Asiri wa a bo".