Alarm Clock
The morning arrived as they do…crowing. The night pauses, courteously giving way to the light, and the roosters are first to sing about it. It is a type of spiritual—a call and repeat. I resist cursing them under my breath as, between who I am and who I imagine myself to be, I’d earlier talked myself out of cursing the choir of dogs that think they’re wolves.
The body I am in has provided for itself an aura of warmth beneath five carpets: one of roses, one of wolves and another of geometric shapes. My nose and lips peep into the discomfort of sub-body temperatures. Work clothes are my pyjamas for this reason.
This morning is windy. This is how the cold will heighten itself and nothing shields then but walls; not stiffening, not raising your shoulders as if bracing for a hard blow. Pulling your hoodie over your bald head helps, but you could be considered a reasonable threat and shot for sitting under a tree.
Unwanted Weeds
Today, weeding. They have reached up again, having slipped through fingers and hogged the sun and water and fertiliser meant for something on a requested list. “So you see, even plants are selfish,” I say to the Sunday school teacher who tells my mother, correctly so, that I have a problem with her kind of authority.
Seedlings Delivered in Trays
The weeds are unwanted. Their fruits are spikes and barbs. They were not bought from a store that delivers them in trays. They are only noticed to say: “You should not be here with the colours and sizes admired. You should be on the heap.”
As a weed in the garden of my life, going unnoticed is how I remained rooted. So, taking the likeness of someone valued for his expected likeness, by standing perfectly still, I am given bitter moringa and asked if I have at least fathered a child. To which I respond: As a weed in the garden of my life, I am heard in all directions as the wind through black sage, nut and khust khust grasses, Devil’s needle, sweethearts, and many unnamed, recognised only by their leaves for being prolific and hungry for earth. It is land that rightfully belongs to roots and whatever else will burrow, finding food and protection in the darkness.
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