Ugly Side of Me

To everyone who will read or hear this;

This is not artistic,

Neither is it beautiful.

It is my torn, soot, black heart.

It is the secret cut on my body

You will probably never see.

It is all the ways of dying

That I so often think about.


It is the foul smell of my soul

Escaping through my mouth.

It is the ugly side of me,

Actually, it is the real me.


Behind this facade of a

Strong, happy, independent woman,

Is a weak, sorry excuse for a human.


A human whose first instincts

Have always been to fly, not to fight.

The philosophy of flight

So deeply ingrained in me

That even as a child,

When my Social Studies teachers,

In class 2 and 6

Decided to get social with me,

Exploring the physical features

Which were the mountains and valley on my early developing chest,

I decided not to tell anyone.

Not even my parents.


I guess this is where I use my ADHD card,

Say that I wasn’t paying attention

To what they were doing to me, molesting me,

A child in school uniform,

So it doesn’t really matter.


But the truth is,

Even if attention is not being paid,

Guilt is still felt.

The guilt of feeling,

The guilt of being,

The guilt of flying instead of fighting

So ,

I started to blame me, Wairimu

Hate me, Wairimu

Cut me, Wairimu

Making myself an alter ego, Nimo

Nimo who’d never been molested

Never been touched

Never been hurt,

Nimo, who was stronger than Wairimu


She could speak out,

Fight back.

Cry out, for everyone…

Everyone else,

But unfortunately never for herself,

Because the truth is that Nimo was Wairimu

And Wairimu was hurt,

Wairimu was broken.


So Wairimu hated Nimo for being so fake

And Nimo hated Wairimu for being so weak.


Many say that no one will love you

If you don’t love yourself

And unfortunately, they are right.

With all the self-loathing I felt

I pushed away everyone,

Who showed the slightest bit of genuine care

As if exuding a poisonous fragrance,

Or giving off a dark, depressive vibe

Such that even medical experts, read shrinks,

Asked how anyone could honestly stand me…

A valid question, because even I couldn’t.

And sometimes still can’t stand me.

A valid question because even I would wish myself away

Still valid because even as I smile

Wishing rest on my soul

I realize that I’m still wishing to fly from

And not fight for me.

To fly from,

And not fight the past that was me.


But having lived all these years

With some people I call friends

And others I call family,

I realize that all this time,

I have been fighting.

Granted I’ve been fighting to fly,

But fighting still.

Fighting to fly from depression

Fighting to fly from the past,

Fighting for me…


So to anyone who will read or hear this…

This is not artistic,

But it sure as hell is beautiful.

It is my torn soot, black heart fighting.

It is the secret cuts on my body

You will probably never see.

It is the foul smell

Of the used up strength from my soul

Escaping through my mouth.

It is the ugly side of me

Growing into the most beautiful as well.




Sin Symphony

I got a call from the devil


But unlike what most people would think,

The conversation actually sounded like

A beautiful classical piece

Played by a full orchestra.


It started off slow, and soft

Like violins playing their melodies.

Let’s just say that from the beginning,

I knew it was going to be a strings attached

Kind of conversation.


But it was ok,

I mean, it was slow and soft,

A little swaying here and there wouldn’t hurt anybody

I mean, I could still listen and

Res… Res… Resist, right?


But as the conversation went on

It got more intense

As if he had just gotten reinforcement from his demons

And the “music” in my head got

Louder and faster,

LOUDER and faster


Mind said yes, no, yes, I mean yes…


And before I knew it,

My feet were off the ground.

I had been carried away

To a place I’d never been before,

To a place

I’d been convinced I’d always longed for


And now I couldn’t see

I couldn’t feel, I couldn’t breathe

But they didn’t stop


The orchestra in my mind got louder

AndĀ  I got higher

It got louder and I got higher

And I must admit that at that point,

At that point,

The feeling in my body

Was no less than what I’d always thought

Ecstasy would feel like.


And the music got louder,

And Louder

And then…


And then it stopped.


There was a feeling of sudden emptiness

As I came crushing down to the ground

Looking back with regret at what I’d…

What I’d just done.


And it is at that point

That I finally understood

Why serial killer’s preferred music is classical

As my sin seems to be a symphony.

Post Cards

Post cards,

Reminders of places gone

Things done

And places to be.


So Becky,

Send me some post cards

As reminders

Of who we used to be


Of the places we’d said we’d say

Send me post cards

To remind me

Of the people we’d said we’d be.


On those post cards,

Write me letters

Reminding me of what we’d said

We’d never watch or touch

What we’d never speak or think

What we’d never feel

And if we did feel,

What we’d never act upon.


Send me post cards,

Because I have forgotten who we are.


I have done that which we forbade

And thought pleasantly of that which we detested.


So dear Becky,

Send me post cards

Of where we are supposed to be,

So that I will find you

And finally find me.


Bare is how I have always wanted to see you.


Not the kind that everyone thinks about.

But bare,


With your heart and soul exposed,

With your insecurities laid out,

And your imperfections uncovered.

Shedding light on your dark days for me

And pointing out the black spots on your white cloak.

Bare, is how I have always wanted to see you.

Allow me to touch everything that you think is imperfect.

I don’t promise to heal it,

But I do promise to love it.

Allow me to sit at your dark corner with you.

I don’t promise that I will be able to light it up,

But I promise to always be there with you.

Seated quietly when you need silence,

Holding your hand and leading you,

When you need guidance.

Allow me to admire the art of the black spots on your white cloak,

As I trace the every rough path

And seemingly wrong turn

And thank God that they all led you to me.

Bare is how I have always wanted to see you,

Bare is what I have always wanted to show you.

Bare is what this love was always meant to be.

Letters From Jail

To my dear sons and daughters.

I know that you have been told enough lies,

I mean, stories

About how I got here.

Your “masters” wrote books

Shot films, sung songs

To explain my “just” incarceration

They made up fairy tales,

Where all the heroes were of their kind

And all the monsters were of mine

Just to show you the certain doom they helped you evade.

But today, I will tell you the truth.

The truth about me,

But more importantly,

The truth about you.

You see, the truth is that,

I was imprisoned because i told you

That your big, kinky hair,

Brought out the beautiful shape of your face.

That your large, bushy eyebrows

Brought out that light in your eyes.

That your dark-chocolate colored lips

Were attractive enough to kiss.

That you didn’t need to paint them,

All you had to do was stretch them.

I was imprisoned

Because I told you,

That your different languages

Were never designed to be a source of hatred

Rather, diversity intended for harmony.

That your different cultures were never inferior, elementary

But rather, complementary to each other.

That their way of dressing

Was not really weather appropriate.

But besides that,

I am surprised that you never noticed

The irony in the names suit and tie

Because now they have tied you to suit them.

I was imprisoned

Because instead of getting offended,

I asked you to laugh,

Each time they called Africa the Dark continent.

Not because we are “backward”

But because it is true, we are dark

And our coal colored skin should always have been a pride point

Never something to be ashamed of.

I was imprisoned

Because i agreed with.

Yes, I agreed with them

That everyone needs to have a place in society

But went on to add

That no ones place should be below another.

I was imprisoned

Because they were afraid that you would believe me.

At this point however,

I wish i was imprisoned,

In a physical jail cell

As that would have been much easier to leave.

But the “masters” knew this.

So they imprisoned me in your minds.

Made you believe that

Being black and beautiful,

Black and proud,

Black and free

Were privileges rather than rights.

Made you believe

That speech brought you death

And silence bought you peace.

Made you believe

That you were created to suffocate

Rather than breathe.

Made you believe

That I, black pride,

Was made to be imprisoned

Rather than set free.

I was Imprisoned

Because I told you

That black, should be proudly beautiful.

The saddest thing however,

Is that even after you were physically set free,

You chose to remain mental slaves.

Took the keys to my jail cell

And made it your personal mission

To ensure that I never escape.

Not knowing that you had made it your personal mission

To ensure that you were never set free.

The truth, is that now

You hold the key.

Will you set you free

Or will you watch you die?

Will you continue to suffocate silently,

Or will you finally choose to breathe?

Welcome To The Gallery

This piece is dedicated,

To the one who will come after me.

The first time he saw me,

He walked up to me and said,

“Hi, I’m a painter,

And you look a lot like one of the paintings I recently finished.”

Being an art enthusiast, I asked which one,

And he said, ” The One”.

At this point, most probably like you,

I was speechless.

So he took advantage of this moment of weakness

And continued to say

That just like in his painting,

Deep in my eyes were dancing tears.

And to him, this made me beautiful,

This made me special.

Needless to say, I feel in love with this man.

And a few months later

He proposed marriage.

No, He never really said,

“Will you marry me?”

His words were more like,

“Would you like to see my gallery…”

And very excitedly,

I said yes.

So I ran away with this man

To a land unknown to me.

And on that first night,

On what I thought was our matrimonial bed,

He whispered, “welcome to the gallery”.

And on this night,

I learnt that the only form of art he knew was,

How to paint his fists on my face

Imprint his palm on my neck

And when I finally fell face flat,

Have strokes of his boot on my back.

Welcome to the gallery.

Sometimes he would beat me

Just to watch me bleed.

He enjoyed how the blood splat on the wall.

Abstract, he called it.

Welcome to the gallery

Where he filled my body with spots of blue and black

Made me bleed in shades of light and dark

With cuts the shape of lightnings wrath,

Welcome to the gallery.

And more often that not

I would reflect on the words that he first said to me.

I guess he got a kick out of

Watching my dancing tears fall.

And he wasn’t lying when he said that I was the one,

The painting he had recently finished

Because now I was finished.

In different shades of black, or is it blue,

Bleeding on this bedroom floor.


Welcome to the gallery

Where you are the canvas

In the hands of a painter.

This piece is dedicated to the one who will come after me.

I hope that unlike me,

You are less naive, less eager.

But most importantly,

I hope that you find this letter, before this painter finds you.

Too Late

When I was a little girl, I used to have dreams of being a princess

And you were the king.

But over time, my dreams have changed.

Don’t worry, you are still the main actor,

Just that your character changed.

From being a King, to just some guy

To the monster who is out to destroy me,

And lately, worst of all, to you.

The real you.

I remember when I was about seven

I would every so often write you love letters.

Take my time to draw and color,

Try my best to impress you

Because honestly I wasn’t very good at drawing.

And you would take these tiny notes and put them in your wallet,

Hug me tighter each and tell me that I was the best


Recently, I discovered that you threw out my letters and replaced them

With receipts of your most priced belongings.

But why am I surprised…

As the more I grew, the more you treated me as a depreciating asset

I guess with time, I lost all my value to you

And now my “receipts” of love mean nothing to you.

The olderĀ  grew, the more you felt the need to constantly remind me of this,

You insulted me daily

Told me I would amount to nothing

And when I tried to defend myself

Saying that I was a woman of substance

You agreed.

But to you the only substance i ever held was my “excess” weight.

And I guess this upset you so much

Because it made it difficult for you to ignore me.

So from a tender age

I learnt how to build great walls

Fortify my heart, because I believed that anyone who showed me affection

Was out to hurt me

Was out to do what you did to me.

But time and time again,

I let my guard down for you


Just hoping that you would go back to being the man I so dearly loved.

But every time I took my walls down for you

You would seize the opportunity,

Aim and fire, aim and fire, aim and fire poison arrows at my heart

And I would bleed out.

And you would sit there and smile to yourself

Very proud that yet again

You would watch my heart being drained of everything it ever held dear.

And when I finally fell to the ground, clutching my heart

Convinced that this time, I was surely going to die,

You would laugh and walk away

And this made me despise you.

So with everything I had, I would find the strength to stand up and rebuild my walls.

And just once, Just once

I wish I could feel the warm of a smile,

Just once I wish I could feel the warmth of a hug, but i can’t.

Because you single handedly turned my heart into a block of ice,

And now I feel nothing.

Maybe because I’m afraid to feel

Maybe because I just hate the idea of feeling,

But bottom line, I feel nothing.

But despite all this,

I would like to stop holding a grudge against you.

Maybe give my heart a chance to love again.

So despite all this, I forgive you.

I would like to say it is because I love you,

But I’m not sure that is true any more.

But anyway,

Every night I pray for you.

I pray that God will open you eyes

And you will finally realize what you have been doing

To the very few people who actually, truly care about you

But by this time it will be too late,

Because I’ll have left,

And this time,

I am never coming.