Le Rails


There is something I find kind and soothing in emptiness. I always visit the train station after the last train. I do this every night when I know there will be no one there. But my routine was altered one night. There’s an old man. What’s happening? Am I perhaps too early?
I fought an urge to just call it a night and walk back home. The night has been RUINED! I must have been standing for about 6 minutes when I finally went on to sit on my usual spot. It’s near the end of the platform where the encircling walls meet in a right angle, right below the notice boards, where sometimes people post adverts for their gigs or businesses.
The old man was sitting on a far-right bench wearing a brown coat covering his entire body and a hat with a red fur on its side, his grizzled facial hair matched his outfit. I wondered if he was a magician, but the stainless-steel bench made him look rather a poetic man. He was sitting up-right in the middle of it with his left leg crossed over his right and drinking a nip of Captain Morgan rum. ‘There goes his sorrows down the rails.’ I muttered.

I pondered if he was waiting for someone and that maybe they stood him up, because he did not board the last train. I had never seen him before. In all fact, I have never been in the presence of anyone at this hour. I did not mind his company, however. Unlike most old men who get drunk, he was not mumbling to himself or singing unintelligible songs or making eye-contact with me. He was just sitting, waiting for God knows what.

Anyhoo, it could be the fluorescent lights or how the rails seem to be sighing in loud silence and somewhat happy that the day is over. Or maybe it’s the faulty lamp that keeps on flashing sporadically every four-seconds near the restrooms, or the buzzing sound of the train cables, which one never hears during the day. Whatever it is; it brings me harmony, and I bond well with all that jazz.

I don’t know what happened to the old man. He was not there the following night. I marvelled on whether he was going to spend a night on another station with Captain Morgan. Wherever he was, it was not here. I was alone this time, just me and the rails.








The War


The war, the terror.
The trembling hearts when an AK47 fires in close range
the blood spatters, tainting the innocent walls.
The departure of the body from its soul,
as the nine-millimetre bullet permeates through the dull skin
crushing the bones and leaving the body bloody cold.

O’ the cries of war!

The infants who remain orphans
in a crowded, yet lonely world.
The widows who never again dream of happiness.
The parents who will never see smiles on their children’s faces anymore.

The Gory War…

The turning of brother against brother,
the throwing of daggers at each other by friends, when one is not on guard.
The betrayal by silence when one of the defence fighters lies not moving.
The prayers for the war to stop,
which seem to ricochet before they reach their destination.
The War!

The Customer is Always Right

Rule cust

A lot of my associates and friends graduated this year, and I am still a struggling Law student dying to finally graduate; partially also because I work for a retail company, where even when a customer is very wrong – and sometimes idiotic and perhaps purposefully silly – he is presumed to be right and the contrary is not to be proven.

“Sorry, sir.  You can only get a coupon for six items, not ten.”
“Because it’s…”
“I’ve been a client for more than ten years!  You can’t tell me that!” He exclaimed before I could answer him.
“Go get me the manager!”

It feels like a nightmare – or is it perhaps a day-mare? – That my first official job would be so vexing and more than often make me wish I was jobless.  I deal with retail customers which means I have to smirk at everything they say; funny or not, and sometimes I am compelled to agree and understand things that I, on any normal day, would find utterly nonsensical.

I don’t know if all this is Karma, or perhaps an eye-opener, but what frets me more is whether I have been an unwise customer myself and the retailers have never told me so  because of the old clichéd adage; ‘The Customer is Always Right.’  But even I (in my capacity as a customer) don’t like this maxim.  It feels more like what Donald Trump and Jacob Zuma would say after buying wrong items; like taking a size 9 instead of a size 6, or a recipe book instead of bed time stories.  Believe me, it happens sometimes.

They say God works in mysterious ways. And maybe he really does.  I was almost certain that I want to tell the customers that; no they are not right, and that their jokes are really not funny and that I do not appreciate their small talk, and that I don’t mind being taught, but I do mind being belittled and patronised.  But then I received a phone call from Mr. Beks.  He reminded me of appreciation and how we all have to start somewhere, and how lucky I am to be earning an income, which is much more than what I did not earn; and right then, I realised I needed these customers, for without them I would be jobless.  So yes, I will laugh at their unwitty jokes.  I will yield to the demeaning talks, and I will accept the injudicious orders; like getting separate checkout trolleys, one brought specifically for food and another one for toiletries.  Anyhoo, you know what they say; the customer is always right.

I Will

I will travel the world and write tales about love and hatred,
I will discuss the horrors of death and portray the beauty of birth.
I will provoke tears out of the sad faces disguised by fake mirth.

I will tour the world and nurture the abandoned babies.
I will hold them close and perhaps even change their spoiled nappies.
I will sing to them songs and lullabies.

I will visit the graves of the brave fallen soldiers.
I will share a meal with the eccentric bedfellows.

Oh yes! I will travel this beautiful circle-world with ugly corners,
and write tales about marriage and divorce, families, friends and foes.
I will write tales and hope that they gather all the separated,
and spread love that will not be conquered by hatred.

In My Dreams

In My Dreams:

I am a fearless man,
a warrior who thrives and thirsts for war.
I am wiser and much more foolish.

In my dreams:

Love is rather clairvoyant, yet so blind,
it’s sharper than the Shakespearian daggers;
it cuts through the soul and brightens the dull mood.
Only in my dreams, love is evil, yet so kind.

Life is not just about dreaming,
there is more to it than just winning,
Yes, In my dreams:
People never pretend,
a stranger is friendlier than a friend.

I see life for what it really is:
confusing and unfair;
Filled with enthusiasm and despair.
I see the inner motives of people;
some good and some bad.

Yes…Only In My Dreams.


What My Nephew Taught Me in his Absence

tumblr_lyw1u3n3LZ1r8ob74o1_1280It is mind blowing how one’s absence can be painfully felt.
This time it was my nephew’s.  He left me feeling dreary;
I felt sadness flowing through my heart’s arteries at high speed.
I was surprised as to how a young baby’s absence can leave a space million times his being.
I instantly missed him as he bid me farewell:
He was sad to leave, I was sadder.
I wondered if that’s how good memories are made- Out of mixed emotions:
After the good time’s gone, when you look back with a wistful smile, wishing to go aback.
I kept seeing his face and hearing his voice: his presence I yearned,
I watched videos that we took at the park, except  they  seemed to enhance the nostalgia,
If there’s one thing I learnt a lot is that: One can neither preserve nor hoard moments.
I figured that: the more blissful the moments are, the more shattering the longing becomes.
I believe it now; time does fly when you are having fun.

Why Did You Have to Leave


I used to lie on your bedside,
Now I cry on your graveyard
They told me you went to a holy place
And that’s where you are only safe.

 I asked if I could come visit you,
They said you’ll come in my dreams,
I need you mom, you’re my only peace
Why did you have to leave?

 Remember our dream?
 I wanted you to be in the front row sit when I graduate,
You told me that you would be, but now why did you leave?

 I grieved for your death, but I still couldn’t heal,
It has been a long while since you left and
Pains like it was yesterday I still feel.
Why did you have to leave?

 You said I should read a bible everyday because,
That’s the way to live.
 You said that you’ll always be with me if I stay a good child,
But now you are not here, did I do something wrong Mom?

 I’m sorry if I once bought you tears.
I was young and immature;
I promise I would do anything to see you smile,
I withhold my tears and act strong in public,
However mom, I’m immersed with fears.
Why did you have to leave?

 I cry gazing at your photos,
Missing: the smile that made me bright,
The hug that detained the mothers love,
The warmth of your presence as well as
The voice that made me laugh out loud.
Why did you have to leave?