#sevensofar

The first one.
It happened in a hospital.
When she was just 13.
Under the watchful eye
Of a doctor
Who said
That her body was too young.
To handle the rigours of childbirth.
He saved her from the man
Who had put her in family’s way.
Because he was married anyway.

The second time.
At 19.
Was her classmate at college.
He told a friend.
Who told another friend
Who knew a doctor friend.
Who put something inside her.
That cruelly ejected
The life growing inside of her.
The man, her classmate.
Called her spoiled goods
He couldn’t deal
And he left her.
For...
Another classmate.

Number three.
In a little backroom.
Of a dingy house
That called itself
A clinic.
In the front they
Did medical work.
But at the back
Was the devil’s workshop.
In a few hours.
She was freed.
Of that which
Had threatened to
Ruin her future.
He left her soon after.
Called her a whore.
Who couldn’t keep
Her legs shut.

Fourth time unlucky.
The condom broke.
After a party.
He was drunk
She had two glasses.
A one-night stand.
He had declared.
A crush on her.
Three months later.
He didn’t wanna know.
That must be one of
Your many men.
I cannot have babies.
I am young
Leave me alone.
This time she was stuck
Afraid that.
Her body could not
Take any more.
But when she walked.
Into that place
The one that was famous
For these kinds of things.
They welcomed her.
The fee was reasonable.
It would be clean
Free of pain
And so
Painlessly,
a life was cut short.
An innocent life.

But then one day.
She met a friend.
And they talked.
The friend said.
I cannot have bastards.
Because their fathers.
Just wanted.
Some fun with me.
Gave me money.
I got pregnant for them.
Then flushed their babies.
I’ve done seven so far.

The silence hangs heavy
The room is cold
Cold like her heart.

#Finding.Myself.Again

“I’m lost”.

Disappeared in a maze of confusing complications
Many times I nearly succeeded in finding my way
And when the mouth of the cave that swallowed me
Came into view
The huge jaws opened again and gobbled me up
Took me past the throat
And into the belly of
Nothingness. Self-doubt. Unworthiness.

In the maze are signs that read
“At Six Years- sitting under Mummy’s sewing table
making doll’s clothes.”

Another says “12 Years- Gazing out of window
To stare at the people
on the other side of the fence.”

And this one stands out boldly,
“14 Years - When you found your voice
And crept out of your quiet reclusive shell.”

The next is rather fun.
“16 Years - When nothing could stop you.”

“20 Years - when you brought forth life
To become a mother, a nurturing spirit.”

But I’ll admit, though grudgingly,
That it was the first time I experienced
The loss of innocence
It could have been the youth in me
That quickly kicked away the doubt,
That tore at the bush of despondency,
The forest of fear.
The sticky web of indecision, utter bewilderment
A deep mess of ignorance about life
In a state where I believed what I believed
Stuck on the thin line between girl and woman.

For 18 years, I stumbled through the mesh
of growing up and responsibility
Juggling motherhood, work, daughterhood
Walking deeper into the wood.
“God help me,” I cried every night
Not believing that He would.

You see, it took me quite some time
To figure out that life is a process.
And certain things do not fall into place
Just at the snap of your fingers.
My mantra quickly became
“I do not know”, “I am tired”, “I’m so done”.

I know now,
That that was the climax of my hopelessness.
And that from that point on,
Things could only get better.
Slowly by slowly, I found the strength
to start the climb
out of the abyss of self-deprecation
The pit of hopelessness,
The black hole where I lost Me.

And then, in the quest for more meaning
I lost my grip,
slipped and slid several feet down
Landing smack into another cavity.
Here, things grabbed at me
Held me tight in their claws
And began to suffocate me
Long hours of slaving, lethargy of ideas
The life drained out again,
Creativity was stifled, beliefs crumbled,
Self-esteem fled, morale was crushed.
And once again, I returned to the empty shell
I had so tried to escape.

The metamorphosis was slow
But the results were glaring.
They saw it, I felt it
Too worn out to fight this time
I let myself go.
Maybe I would find peace as a nobody.

But in my dog-tired state, I heard a sound
Like a whisper at first.
I refused to lift my head but it persisted
Becoming louder and louder with time
Until it became a voice
In my head, a voice that said
“Get up! Lift yourself!”
And then the words of the US’s black President
He who married Michelle, came to me,
“Yes we can! Yes we can!”
And the chorus grew, and grew
Rising in volume each time it was repeated
And I leaned on my forearms, sat up.

Another voice murmured,
“You gotta get your groove back!”
And God, with his might,
gave me the push I needed
To get back on my feet.
And though I toddled a bit,
Floundered like a fish out of water,
I got stronger by the day.

And now, even if I can’t yet run,
I walk with my head up straight
The mist is clearing,
I just saw my goals wave at me
Life gave me a thumbs up
And I am ready
To. Find. Myself. 
Again.

#loud silence

Silence
Deafening silence
He can hear
But he cannot speak.
That right is no longer his
He lost the freedom to express himself
One evening last week.

Nobody knows how he feels
Nobody will know what happened
When he felt the strong tug
As the supply of blood to his brain
Was cut off, blocked
Temporarily stopped.

He heard the doctors say something about oxygen
Something about about nutrients, brain cells
Something about requiring an MRI or a PSD
Something about drugs to break down the clot
Words like aneurysms, cholesterol, constrictions.
Wait - did someone mention surgery?

Children run to his bedside,
Some worried, some not at all
Some wondering if he has a will
And if he will bequeath
Them some property
Visitors come bearing help
Food, money, moral support
Some blaming the doctors
For not doing enough,
Speaking at the top of their voices.

He lies there like a child,
A cabbage in a patch,
Unable to control his muscles
On the right side of his body.
His mouth droops slightly
But what scares him most
Is not how he looks
But the inability to speak.

He remembers that even in the worst
Of his drunken stupors,
He did not slur this much
The guttural noises that rise in his throat
Sound like they belong to someone else.
Because in the flash of second,
He lost it, when she said
That she had sold his bicycle
Because he never used it
And preferred to stagger home
Dead drunk from the bars and hovels.

He remembers that he screamed at her
She yelled back and said
All sorts of terrible things
That did not exclude death threats.

And then the birds came
Angry black birds
They came for his head
And then he saw nothing
But felt himself
Falling, falling.
Then there was silence.
Loud and empty silence. 

©LindaKibombo

#inthatroom

In that room,

On that night

Unspeakable things happened

In silence,

She was violated

Lost her innocence.

Defiled by two boys

Young, nubile, her age

Desecrated, Defiled, Disrespected.

Left empty, polluted, contaminated.

In that room.


In that room,

On that cold cold night,

Homeless and desperate,

She gave up her rights

On that single bed

On that rock-hard

Stained mattress

With no sheets

They poked, probed, prodded

Thrust, plunged, lunged

Pinched her young breasts

Put their filthy hands

Around her throat.

Kneed her legs apart

Forced themselves onto her

Taking turns, several times,

And when

the first light appeared

Kicked her out

Of that room.

©LindaKibombo

#ditchingthediet

Been Eight days
“Working well, working well!”
Until you decide to skip Lunch
‘Coz well, the weather’s so hot!”
And you don’t really
Feel like walking the few yards
In the blazing sun.
And so you settle for a Cuppa,
Unsweetened. You’re getting used
To it.

But before you know it
Spoon whispers your name
“Yes Spoon?” you answer.
Spoon leads your hand to Sugar Bowl
Who has been sitting there
Looking really mournful because
You ignored her in the morning
And then Spoon order Hand to
Scoop some sugar. Shyly.
Another scoop.
And then another. Boldly.

Cuppa silently, gratefully
Receives the sweet crystals
In goes Teabag
Settling comfortably, waiting for
Boiling liquid.
To help her prove
The very reason for her existence.

And without a second thought,
Cuppa is lifted to Mouth.
Tongue agrees
With the acquired taste.
Diet cries herself to sleep.
Because she has been
Through this drill
A million times before.

©LindaKibombo

#tubaffwewe

Sometimes I liked you

Sometimes I wasn’t so sure

But today I finally know what I feel

Yes.

There is

Immense hatred

flowing out of me

for you.

Like hot lava,

it makes its way out of my body.

Out of my heart

Out of my very being.

It makes me wish it could

consume you

burn you

to a crisp, to a cinder,

To embers that glow no more.

To ash

so that you are nothing.

So that your ugly mouth

can no longer

bare its broken yellow teeth

and that nonsense

that you bleat

the empty threats

that you make

are forever stuck

in your throat

choking you like the bone

from a stolen piece of fish.

Your bulbous nose,

your puffy face,

that has suffered years

of self-inflicted alcohol-abuse

a voice scarred

by decades of imbibing waragi

As you lie and lie

Through the stinky

broken yellow teeth

As you try- but miserably fail

To justify your ugly deeds.

Last time you raised your voice

to cry
To complain that

the ground was not leveled

when you accused your peers

of eating off the golden plate

and not throwing you

enough crumbs

I want to call you a bad word,

Tubaff! 

And what the Kikuyus spit out

F**kini!

That’s who you are.

I don’t remember what it was like

when I liked you

But one thing I am sure of

is that

I loathe you

with an unrivaled passion.

Trash.

Scumbag.

You.

©LindaKibombo

#thosehouses

Those houses…

The ones located in places which
know no mud or slush when it rains.
Areas which do not see any dust or teargas.
Those ones which sit on a half acre of land
at the top of the hill
and at the end of a long, neat, paved walkway,
which you drive up to reach the parking area.
The residences with spacious garages that can
comfortably house three cars.
The ones which are hidden behind
high solid wrought iron gates
and chain link fences along which vines of ivy
and honeysuckle creep and climb
to hide them from the view of peering prying eyes.
Houses whose assurance of security comes from
askaris in uniform,
men armed with a gun and a baton,
surveillance cameras, and dogs
which feed on meat and milk.
The lodgings where
you have to ring a bell at the gate and
when you do, the dogs
start barking ferociously.
The plush homes with well-tended flower gardens,
mowed lawns, sprawling green grounds,
where the songs of the birds, the buzz of the bees
and the piercing quiet, are normal sounds.
The ones in the
so-called "leafy neighborhoods"
In winding roads that go round and round the hills
Roads that are labelled Lanes,
Boulevards, Groves, Drives and Streets.
Whose space on the sides is untouched
to allow for evening strolls,
for joggers, sprinters
and those looking to keep fit as they take brisk health walks
The ones which have signs at the door that shout
“ Welcome to our humble abode”
With wind chimes that tinkle in the wind.
Those bungalows with old red tiled roofs,
Which have been scrubbed clean of the moss
that threatened to grow over them,
The ones with huge bay windows,
flung open to let in the cool fresh breeze,
and the light.
And when the night comes, hundreds of bulbs
make the place look as light as day.
Servants’ quarters for the helps,
kennels for the dogs
Hutches for the pet rabbits,
a tree-house for the kids.

Those houses...
Do not know places
Like Korogocho, Katanga, Kisenyi,
where the residents literally
sleep in each other’s faces
in their cramped, wretched hovels
made of mud and wattle,
wood and plastic bags.
Shacks, holey tin roofs,
Sharing tight spaces with all manner of vermin
Rats, Cockroaches, Fleas, Bedbugs, Lice.
Here, when it rains it pours
Because the myalas, filled with discarded buveeras
and bottles, overflow and
vomit their yucky contents on the
always wet and mushy ground.
Where flying toilets are the order of the day.
and it is not uncommon to step into something
soft and smelly
The choking stench from the sewage,
heaps of rotting garbage.
Whiffs of marijuana smoke, cigarettes.
Gangs of youths, hair unkempt, eyes glassy,
smoking, snorting, injecting.
Children playing in the narrow alleyways.
A mama running a brothel,
She tells the kids, "Go and play,
Your Unco is here and we want to talk,
you will come back later."
The house where 11 people share space
with the jerricans, sigiri, saucepans.
Mangy dogs, stray cats
No chickens wandering aimlessly.

Those houses ... 


©LindaKibombo

#inthebin

In a da bin
Is where he is.
No, not where he belong
But because she thrown him
In a da bin.

In a da bin
Coz he did sumtin stupid
Sumtin she dinna like
And so she said he
Deserve to be
In a da bin.

In a da bin for
Three months and four days
He been counting since
She stopped talking to him
And tossed him there
In the quiet place called
In a da bin

One Saturday night he said,
Dahling, I going out with a da boys
Watch a bit of ball and all.
And he da com back
Two in a da morning
And she scream and yell
And cuss him out.
And then
Throwed him
In a da bin.

From a da bin,
Sometime he open, and
Peep outta da bin.
He see her face,
Her mouth set, a tight line,
And he close the lid
And slink back
Into da bin.

He wannad to say,
Dahling, we can talk
If I did anytin’ wrong
when I was with the boys
That Saturday night,
Ya tell me because
We cannat be livin’
Like this.
You outta da bin,
And me in a da bin.

Now he say to himself
I can’t stand
Bein’ in a da bin
For no more.
I’m tired of her treating
Me like I am a rubbish
A bad cabbage, rotten tomato
Them are what, not me,
who belong
In a da bin.

 ©LindaKibombo

#notyetfree

Stripped of your dignity
bedding down on the floor,
blankets and sheets do not exist in this part of the world
and not even a mattress to ease
the chill of the grey, chipped cement.

You wait for first light like a bride eagerly waiting for her groom
Because it is the only glimmer of hope that you still hold on to.

But even then you cannot leave the space
in which you are confined with 86 others,
lying side by side in the dark,
breathing in each other’s breath,
inhaling each other’s silent smelly farts
listening to each other's snores,
their groans, their grunts, their moans.

Grouped together with debtors, killers, defilers, pickpockets
Thugs who have no qualms about wrongdoing.

Bedbugs crawling freely,
up and down, left and right
like thieves in the night.
Mosquitoes getting drunk on your blood
Staggering away
their buzzing wings irritating.

Fleas jumping and biting
Leaving you sore and itching.

Black rats as big as baby cats crissing, crossing
Your bodies form part of the highway along which they dart.

Overgrown roaches roaming,
Nibbling at your feet.

Sleep fails to come and you lie on your back
thinking, wondering how you got here
But your thoughts are like a circle
going round and round,
merging one into another with no end in sight.

And you lay on your back and gaze
at the iron sheets,
You notice the one thousand holes
And the moonlight seeping in.

You are not yet free.

©LindaKibombo

#hesaid

He said my palms are too rough
And that a bottle of Nivea lotion cost a few shillings.

That my feet had cracks which would tear his sheets
And that they didn’t deserve to be dressed in sandals.

He said I laughed like a whore
Because when I cannot control my mirth
I ha-ha out loud and shake like a volcano.

He said my hair was like steel wool
Couldn’t I invest a wig - like Beyonce?

He also said I had tires around my waist
A petite Michelin Man of sorts
And that he was finding it hard to wrap his arms around me.

And then he called my short nails ugly
And that I should get acrylics which every “good” girl wore.

“Your face is too plain”, he said,
“At least rouge your lips and powder your face.”

That my hips were straight and my behind too flat
And that, “These days, padded panties were on sale downtown.”

He mocked my lisp because I called him “Thteven” and not Steven
I wish he only knew how cute everyone else said I sounded.

He said there was everything wrong about me but that in spite of all that, that he loved me.
But added, as a sort of by the way,
That, “You must have wriggled out of God’s grasp as He moulded you.”

And when I had had enough of him saying and saying and saying what he said,
I said,
“I am fearfully, and wonderfully made.
I am God’s workmanship
He created mankind in His own image, and likeness
in true righteousness and holiness
And that is how I choose to look at things.
Mister, you can take your love and stuff it elsewhere!"

 ©LindaKibombo

#thenewtwenny

The Forties beckoned,
"Come in, come on in!" they said gaily.
"Get comfortable, feel free to be who you REALLY are!"

The Forties offered me
a comfortable seat and glass of red wine.
I sat quietly by the fireside, waiting to savor what else they had on offer.

The Forties said
They would be hosting a ten-year party.
"We want to show you that forty really IS the new twenty!"

"What’s in the decade-long party?" I ventured timidly,
not knowing what to expect from the promised fanfare.
Calmly, they replied, "You just wait and see."

Forties told me, "You’ll be called Mama by everybody. You will
worry less what they think. You will have more insight
into those things you were previously baffled about.

Forties said, "Take heart, you will not suffer any more baby showers, those dratted showy gatherings are so a thing of the past."
"You can now choose from cocktail parties, grand brunch and oldies get-togethers.
Not to mention a seat at the high table for every family gathering."

Forties come with some greying, failing eyesight,
Hard of hearing, aching knees, things go rapidly south.
Did I also hear that jowls sag and the brow furrows??
And so you will need extra tabs of Vaseline and moisturizer.

"Your time is ticking, you need to stop
experimenting and get really real. No more games 'coz
you ain't 39 anymore.
Your spring chicken days are so over
Welcome to the beginning of the off-layer stage!"

The Forties assure you that when you bald, it is not a crisis.
Y'know, like the mid-life thing that our brothers suffer
The one that makes them realise how unfulfilled their dreams are,
That causes their eye to wander and adds a spring to their step.

Forties bring with them the realization about
who you really are, what you really want.
(Although, hmmmm... In some cases, they carry along a little suitcase of worry).

But do take heart.
It is a celebration of having worked hard to figure out life.
It’s JUST the middle, the transition, the old age of youth.

Oh! Forry! Forry, the New Twenny!"

©LindaKibombo

#lovetriangle

He picks her up.
He puts her down.
He is there for her.
For some hours. For a day.
Then he disappears.
He is her friend.
Then suddenly he does not want to see her.
And yet she sticks by him.
Gives him her all. Until he trashes her. For someone else of course.
She pines. She whimpers. She misses him.
But she knows he did not love her.
And she is not sure she loved him back.
In two weeks she has met someone else.
She feels she is in love. It makes her feel heady.
She is happy.
But all he wants is a good time.
She thinks she loves him. He knows he does not love her.
He has no time for her.
He does not respond to her calls.
But one day he demands to see her.
When she does, he has nothing for her. All he wants is to use her.
She throws him out.
She meets someone else.
He is nice. He is kind.
But he is a little too nice.
She says she loves him.
He loves her back. He knows he loves her.
He wants to spend the rest of his life with her.
Then suddenly the wind starts to blow in a different direction.
It blows her love for him away.
She can hear it in her words.
She can feel it in her heart.
She can taste it in her mouth.
She can smell it in the air.
She can touch it.
It does not feel right.

But he loves her. Too much.
She does not love him back...
Sadly.

#naijawood

Igwes.
Chiefs.
Poor to rich.
Riches to rags.
Children who fall out with their mothers.
Witchcraft.
Sad songs.
Dirges.
Village fools.
Massive mansions.
Expensive cars arriving in the village.
Long winding plots.
Part I to Part IV.
Black painted lips.
Body marking.
Apparitions.
Sorcerers.
Weddings with dances that go on for hours.
Rice and chicken dinners.
Selling wares on a lusania carried on the head.
Two village girls gossiping as they go to the well.
Fake weaves. Boring, badly-rehearsed conversations.
Local background music.
Suits in weird colors.
Beautiful headdresses. Geles.
History told and retold.
Mothers-in-law hating on daughters-in-law.
Step-mothers.
Excessive loud crying.
Mis-spelt subtitles.
Pidgin.
Gateman.
Gates.
Servants.
Palace pages in uniform.
Huge fans.
Mattresses on the floor.
Well-swept village compounds.
Quick death.
Deathbed confessions.
Savedees and chanting.
Huge necklaces.
Effe mo!
Chineke!
Pinching the ear to emphasize a point.
Leso’s wrapped round the chest.
Co-wives fighting.
Corrupt cops.
Witches. Okay.
Iddyot!
Machetes.
Bad dreams.
Bathed in sweat.
Being chased by a snake.
Vomiting means “pregnancy”.
Princes falling in love with palace maids.
Long flowing agbadas.
T-shirts and wrappers.
Wife beaters.
Running through thickets.
Credits that start with “To God be the Glory”.
Crying woman miming.
Chief priests.
God forbid-o!
Christmas decorations’ headpieces.
Funny titles.
Small ‘supermarkets’.
Abomination!
30 minutes' single scene.
Chickens.
Welcome!
Kola nut.
Hard drink.
Same uniforms at burial.
Loud wailing.
Village prostitute.
Sacrifice.
Papa.
Mama.
My Son.
Shut-up!
Educated son takes uneducated sister to town.
Wise sayings.
Proverbs.
Cars on the highway.
Guzzlers.
Snapping fingers.
Holding the ear.
Tunics.
Hospitals with a single bed.
Man of the house seducing village girl who comes to stay.
Mama dies suddenly.
Market women selling yams and garri.
Curtains in the doors.
Wringing of hands.
How dare you talk to me like that-o?
Doctors who don't look like doctors.
Wads of Naira. Madness.
Aerial shots.
American dollar.
Praying while pacing.

#tohellwiththatdiet!!!...

Cold maize will make your stomach bloat, they say
Warm water will melt the fat away.
Do you really want to lose weight?
Then watch that stuff you put on your plate.
Today, “sugar and starch are bad for you”,
Tomorrow, “meat samosas and mandazis too”.
If you’re serious, then cut out bread, eggs and cake,
Because your stomach pudgy, they will make.
They warn that the calories in that slice of chocolate cake
Are as deadly as a flavored milkshake.
Instead, a glass of lemon water and honey,
Will not cost you too much money.
Also, kale and watermelon smoothies in the morning.
Will keep your stomach from groaning.
“And what about some coffee?” I ask.
“No.” They recommend a cup of green tea from the flask.
Yellow bananas, red berries, green peppers and orange oranges.
I am praying this diet will work because the changes
Are driving me crazy
My sight is becoming hazy.
Words like wellness, sijui, the mind, body and spirit,
At this rate, I doubt I can do it.
Weight-loss, low-fat, detox, healthy eating,
Forget chips and burgers at a Javas seating.
Metabolism, BMI, blood sugar, nutrition,
Will these really bring my slimming plans to fruition?
Juicing, slimming fibers, fat-burning, shredding,
No, this alien vocabulary I will not be needing.

To hell with the diet.