sixteen baab

October 22, 2012 at 9:01 am | Posted in life | 3 Comments

They say a nigga return, but I never left

It’s been a while.

How I’ve always wanted to say those words.

Just for the personal triumph of leaving a stone unturned.

Has it gathered moss? Are there earthworms beneath, wriggling through a layer of wet, fine red soul so neatly subdued?

Aahh old habits, most of them pensionable, wistfully resting. Dusting them from a store room behind the main house: always a welcome relief.

See, a blogger passes, the blog remains.

Will you blog about it?

It doesn’t feel right to be served supper with a side dish of comments on a post.

No, it wasn’t that bad.

Some evil alter-ego nemesis masquerading as my adventurous self is to be framed.

Speaking of framing, have you ever held an item for so long before finally deciding upon appropriating it a position it deserves?

Yesterday I put up a painting of some African women in song and dance. It was a gift from some quarters. As I stepped back and looked up on the first item I’ve ever hoisted up my wall,  there was a sadness about it. Inexplicable. Perhaps, it was in terms of : is that my only achievement to date?

ffwd >>


Last interaction, a transaction. Gone wrong.  Circumstance of elephants on the loose, rogue!


Sparsely furnished. Minimalist. Ha!- who-am-I-kidding. My place, I mean.

So yeah. Postmortem:  They phone notably on a higher end. Sleek even. Also, on my dressing drawer were coins.

It hit me too late: she counted them.

Every single one of them.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.


playing: uptown anthem ~ naughty by nature


Point of no Retards

September 22, 2010 at 5:04 pm | Posted in life | 4 Comments

I want to leave for London so bad. Now.
Or Mao. Philippines, see the Kremlin, show the uni-digital salute to some skinhead…see if they’ll axe me.

I want to walk down an umarked street, kicking a misplaced pepsi can, see the end of a street I have never known – think about home. 1 000 0000 miles away.

As far, as exaggerated, I still want to get up, pack, fly…crawl, walk, what- ev for as long as my body fuel can burn, as far as the edge of the planet stretch.

What’s with the look?


Feel it – my chest. Or the scraggy ribcage.

It’s thumping, right? – heard of the Tum Tum dreams from West Africa?

In my veins, it’s throbbing, like an uncured erection.


Hold these thoughts…for me – as i take a leak.

The cig stick dancing on my lips, as I talk to you, holding my brief nut case.

Try to look away, as I unziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.

Mary Magdarlin’

May 10, 2010 at 11:00 am | Posted in life | 4 Comments

There are some things I’ve been meaning

To tell you.

But every once in a while, i get sucked in-

Sucked in the growing mist of self-interested  sessions.

Do you-

Do you remember that night?

The night i called, asked how you doing?

Stated my desire to see you- and talk?

To tell the truth, or something near it- i wanted to:

To rip apart this chest and spread all, before thy blind sight-

Bloody, cuddly and chilling

were the thoughts that mapped my brain.

Pictures of you, ran a gallery in my inside anatomy-

Through the biting cold night, Keeping every part of I, raw and restless.

Now, that night, i told myself, just one more joint, and my eyes will whiten up,  head straighten up and my crisped Guggi (never mind, misspelt Gucci made by Ngugi & Sons Tailors) shirt would appear more crisper. I know you are a neat girl. I like the primness and proper-ness about you. The simplicity in your gaze, the way your eye-liner, probably the most exaggerated make-up on you, slightly touches down on your eyelids and dances off a heavenly radiance. I like your brimless clear glasses, and clear white eyes that roll around with unpretentious intelligence. the small and humble dashy-board – potent with ticklish prickliness (the hugs, hm.).

That night, i crawled tales of hellish desires,

My paws preying on my warm wooden Eastlandoh pet

on which, i spot few blood droplets.

Tonight, for your sake-

I’ll take a hiatus- give those brainless humanoids a ceasing fire:

Only today, i’ll stop being Darwin’s helper-

And I’ll multiply with you, the Nat Geo way.

What Happens in Vegas I

February 26, 2010 at 2:46 pm | Posted in life | 2 Comments

I’d be a damned Blogger if i never write this story!

But i am not, so here we go.

Every semester, there is a student Hostel that literally wikas. That, is, in simple-complex English- IT HAPPENS. Here, you’re either a ‘mamas’ boy (live in School) hostel, or are ‘daring’ enough to live in the jungle called ‘Off-Campus’. I, in all my wisdom, chose the latter- and everyday, i got a tale. Anyway, when i was a freshman, a hostel called Runda,did call the shots.One Friday,a guy hired a whole DeeJaying unit complete with the lights and set up the craziest bashment i had seen. Complete with free drinks and warembo ivi, t’waz the first time i got lucky- though details still remain scant in my memory

However, for most of my stay here, i avoid hot spots. I prefer to feel the heat from outside.

Along came Vegas

Now, as  last Semester drew to a class, word went round, on a new hostel that would have facilities ranging from a swimming pool to a student center- all in one location. It sent jitters, because, since the days of a certain Bright Night hostel (’90s- i was not there!!) , no one had ever built such. I must give props to the marketing skills of this guy, because, soon as Jan Sem came by, all party hoppers were rushing to fill in the rooms – and trust me, they’re all FULL.

Not even the fact that a swimming pool is not about to be built;  everything else compensates for that.

Like PIMP Houses

First, you can survive a whole week here w/out a coin in your pocket and you’ll drink, shag, change clothes, eat and sleep. It’s not as easy as that, but the currency is your people skills.

Vegans, as i’ve noted are whole lot of different students. Life Begins at 8pm EVERYDAY and ends at 8 a.m. the following day. A joke was going about that the owner knew about this that he switches off the generator at 8 a.m., switches it off at 8 p.m., Vegas style. Be it a Wednesday, or Friday, drinks flow and girls do what they do best.

Some other night, i was at this guys crib who has decorated his hall like a Pimp house. The lights are blue and read and a thao and one bulb circle about the room, bed, bathroom – i even wondered if he reads?

But this is Vegas, and classes are as Alien as abstinence on a Stag night.

I have several hundreds word to fill, but i have to rush and check somebody out now.

It’s Friday.

And his name is NewToad.

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