“Make Love to me, sweetheart. I want to feel you inside me,” she says her eyes lingering on my face. Today everything is sedate. Serenity wallow in the air as a young bird expect for a hyena which is busy breaking hymen of another. Their mating sounds make the night symphonious especially when their noises merge with the whispering wind. Fridays are not my best days. I abhor weekends. My neighbor, Kanja, is a wrestler, or a welder or something near to that. Everything quake in his house. Sufurias. Tins. Steel. All fall. His bed moans like a pig in labor.
Literary debates are like an orgasm especially those contended ones. They linger making my mouth wet. I love debates with the whole of my heart. I love literature, the mention of literature makes me salivate, I feel boluses of poetry, drama, and stories down from my mouth. No wonder I collect books. Some I don’t read and others I read with a lot of avidity.
Poetry to me is a woman. Some titles are a woman’s head with shimmering eyes and eyebrows, glittering teeth like youngsters of the sun, and freshy kissable lips. I love reading poems. Some poems talk to me with that beautiful, soft, and smooth whispering. A type of voice that melts hearts, tame beasts, and cage lovers. Poets are gods. They are third from God and mother. Poets usually have a way with words. These are people who can make you believe that a bull can conceive.
Poets are words stringers. Are armored with webs of lies. But they call it creativity, yes, creativity as its best. There’s power in the words. I’ve always dreamt of ‘putting someone’s daughter in a box”. One thing I admire about words is, words can make a lady, a fine shaped lady draw the whole of Africa with just the tip of her toes.
Poets are magicians. People who prepare voodoo with words carefully and artfully selected. My guess is, words have a way with words. Words can talk on their behalf.
Kanja, although, he behaves like a bull, he’s a poet. I think poets are humans expect when illusion take the better part of them. This man, though, will one day make my wall to fall. What I am not sure of is if he does what he does on the wall like a cockroach. My portrait fell on my head yesterday.
Literary debates have landed me this lucrative love. I’ve always found myself in this blue lit house. I read novels in this light. Don’t ask me how, but I manage this nocturnality.