Lost at Sea


Who I’m I?

I’m I a son to my mother,

Or the son of the son?

Where do I pledge my allegiance?

I’m lost in reality.

Can I switch God for my mother?

Both gave me life,

One gives me hope,

The other holds the rope,

Who I’m I in this world?

I made a bargain,

Put Jesus on my chest,

Instead of wearing him over my vest,

Until I got that text,

That said, “Tomorrow might not be his next.”

Do I give up?

Maybe leave that note,

That’s leaves nothing on a good note,

Or maybe just hit that note,

And make the fat girl sing.

I’m struggling innately,

Torn between tearing things up,

Or simply tearing up,

I live for today,

Maybe tomorrow will be a better dawn.

Let’s be real

How real is real?
How real is real?

As a human being there are very many things I struggle with. I’m either fighting an attempted coup of my immune system by mosquitoes, trying to point at a direction with my lips or simply trying to hold a fart in during a meeting. It’s not easy but through the gods and my innate abilities, I am able to pull through on a daily basis.

The only struggle I’ve been unable to wrap my well designed fingers around is the concept of real. Real has many definitions depending on your worldview (I remember a thing or two from school) and experiences. Ideally real should be something that has no imitation or simply genuine. I’m not so sure what real is anymore. So I’d encourage you to take offence if you feel targeted by my post.

In school I was taught very many things; some of which I apply in my life. Growing up, I also picked a number of things from my parents, peers and the environment I grew up in. All these factors affected the way I reacted to situations and my ability to either analyze or completely be mauled by circumstances.

So technically, the person I am today isn’t really me. It’s a coagulation of the different people and experiences I’ve encountered in my life.  So I’ll take different scenarios and see whether real actually exists or just like many theories is a figment of our imagination.

I’ve heard the phrase “Be real” So many times and I regurgitate my previous night’s foods every time someone opens their mouth to utter those words. What is real? What I came to learn is that if you lie to yourself repeatedly it eventually becomes a reality for you. I’m I real? Physically, yes. Considering I can hit the daylight out of a human being. Metaphorically? Not so much because I do many things out of relativity.

If I were real, I doubt I’d have any friends outside the ones in my head. Real is being honest. If I told a female friend she was fat and she honestly was fat, the reaction wouldn’t be that positive. Even if I offered a solution to what I saw as a problem, will it be right?

So today I was having a conversation with a good friend of mine who happens to be a self-proclaimed feminist (But aren’t they all?). As we were chatting I made a comment about how pathetic I think Bruce or Caitlyn Jenner is and also took a dig at the Kardashian family for not adding any psychological value to television.

Let’s just say I brewed a tsunami in a tea cup. She went on about how men like to objectify women and how I personally (can you believe this lady) have a tendency of graphically describing ladies. Well, I do graphically describe ladies because I can only say so much about your intelligence when half of the time you talked about your relationship and the other half was about an ongoing series. And what else I’m I supposed to describe if not way a lady looks? What did I learn adjectives for?

If and when my friend reads this, she’ll find something wrong with the previous statement. What is real when I can’t speak my mind? Does saying the truth make me a prick or real? What is brave about what Bruce Jenner did? Women all over the world have struggled to raise families alone, get an education and still be the model wives. What is not real about me saying I think Bruce is a waste of funds and airtime?

We have millions of LGBTs across the world. So are we supposed to celebrate each and everyone of these individuals simply because “they came out of the closet”? What about the heterosexuals? Who celebrates them for “being real” about their sexuality? Being real lost its meaning when artists that sang or rapped about being real had plastic surgeries to look real.

I will not celebrate any special group just because the government or the UN feels that I should. I will celebrate individuals because I relate to what they have done and see a cause in their actions that deserves it. I will always say this, you’re a human being before anything else, so if you’re gay, straight, transsexual or do anything that involves sex with a consenting legal human being, don’t push it in my face. I won’t look at you any better.

I’m going to be “real”. The world isn’t absolute; it’s relative through my eyes. So what’s real to you might not be real to me. I respect the fact that everyone leads their lives differently and our opinions will vary. Being real has nothing to do with other people. If you have to point out a fact for it to seem real, then it’s not real. Life is real, but whoever you believe created you doesn’t remind you everyday that it’s real; circumstances do that.

I may come across as rude or arrogant some times. In all honesty, if I strongly believe in what I communicate, I will not apologize. Sometimes, only hard truths will make someone open their eyes. I once told someone I was smarter than them. That was very rude of me even though it was true. I never apologized because I didn’t believe I should dumb down myself just to fit in or seem nice.

So from today, if someone gives you the real talk just smile and nod your head. If you’re a guy you can stick a hand in your pants and nod both heads. The only real thing out there is what you want to be real. And if anyone tries to force their logic or opinion down your throat and you’re not comfortable with deep throating people’s opinions simply say, “It’s a state of mind.” Hey, if you don’t like what I’ve written just sign off with, State of Mind.

I choose life

Journey to life
Journey to life

So today I was scrolling through my Facebook feed trying to feed my insatiable appetite for interesting content. I try my best to keep out an eye for any lady that has a post up and is looking for some likes to build her esteem. I was lucky enough to stumble upon one as soon as I logged in. I doubled tapped that photo just so that she could know I saw it.

As I went about my ritual of reposting what I consider humorous, I came across this post of someone wishing this Beyoncé of an African a happy birthday. As always, I had to read the whole post just in case it’s one of those likes that feed people in India and cures cancer. At the end it read, “Wish you were still here, two years gone and it’s like you left yesterday.”

Usually I’d just swipe on and mumble RIP as I cursed death for denying such a beautiful soul the opportunity to confuse me. But not today. Today I logged out and thought to myself, what would it be like if I died? It seems like a normal thing. You’d be gone, what more is there to discuss?

People talk of the people they’re going to leave behind but I’m more concerned about myself. I’m seeing myself as a spirit, hovering around hotels I couldn’t access and peeping through bathroom doors just to mention a thing or two that’d be occupying my time. At my age, I have a lot of things I’d love to do. You’re probably asking why can’t you do them now while you have the time? Well, I could try sky diving but I can’t pay for a ticket to watch my favorite football team play in Tanzania.

I can definitely write better than Meek Mill and I’m sure if he gave me opportunity I’d diss the rhythm out of Drake but he hasn’t replied to any of my messages. So there’s plenty I can do but time and space aren’t necessarily phenomena all of us can manipulate. I’d want to take my mom to the Vatican just so that she could see the epicentre of her faith.

I want to share a table with Eddie Griffin or Dave Chapelle and make fun of Dave’s duck-billed mouth or Eddie’s rodent denture. Have you watched a Kendrick Lamar concert? I’d want to walk up to the stage with him and pick his brain on why black lives matter but we still see black lives spill matter on the streets every other day.

What else would I want to do? I’d want to see Arsenal play in the Champions League final once again and leave the stadium as champions. Far fetched dream right? But what makes life so different? My boss says he wants to see a report next week. I’m I going to be there next week? I’m I going to be in a state to hand in that report next week?

I rant every now and then. I’ve probably said some nasty things to people but I have never been doubtful that I meant what I said. I want life in my life. I want to be alive and see the world for what it is today and not what you envision it being or what it used to be. I want to live for today. I want to go out, have fun, get laid and wake up the next day next to the girl of dreams.

Is it possible for me to enjoy life? I’m not so sure. Do I want to enjoy life? Of course I do and I want to start now. I’d blame the institutional structures that limit us to operating hours and routine schedules. But I won’t. I can say no. I can decide to enjoy my life even with the routine in place. I can create time and space just to see the sun rise or climb a tree.

I’ve made many decisions but I don’t want people to say I died too young. I want you to say, he lived his life. I want to make my life mine and not the system’s. It’ll take time but I’ll learn to take control of my life and make it what I want it to be. I will choose to live today.


Sometimes I simply sit back and pen letter to different girls in my mind. Usually, they are fictional and sometimes it’s actual human beings.

Dear Pulchra,

First of all let me say that the reference of dear in this case is in respect to the level of respect I accord you. I would say I hope you’re fine but from your physical appearance that would be tantamount to asking a rhetorical question. I’d start from the moment I saw you and tell you of how I was not struck at first by you and your friends. To be honest, if I did notice you first thing I saw you then I probably wouldn’t have been the first to talk to you. Your beauty was like an intelligent joke. I know I kind of lost you there, but just like the joke, your beauty needed time to sink in.

Your pony tail held back, your flawless dark skin and the smile. Wow, the smile. I have a million and one ways to describe your smile but I’ll just choose the one in the million because that’s how the words played in my mind before I uttered a complex hello.  Writing this letter, I can only picture your face while reading it.

You’ll either be alone, crawled up in your bed thinking, “This guy actually wasn’t playing around” or with your friends hovering around wondering who the mystery guy making you smile is. I’d love to keep it a mystery. Show you the best I have to offer but knowing I have a tendency of bettering my best.

My first instinct would be to say I like you, but I barely even know you. In know you like your tea black and fairly strong. You had your first pet, a cat named Kitty at the age of six and have a birth mark on the underside of your left arm. I know you pout when you’re mad and like your boys in all shapes and sizes but bad.  So when you asked what I thought about you and I said a lot, I had my list all planned out waiting to dictate it to you. What do I think of you? I think you’re amazing. Angels haven’t been seen so I’ll say you are a beautiful thought. Something I can mould into all kinds of perfection just by the mention of your name.

I’d write more but I wouldn’t want to turn a simple letter into a fiction and end up being the author instead of the main character. I may have made the first mistake in penning you a letter but I could also have made the best decision in our lives.

Yours Sincerely,

A smitten soul