Who are you.

You park your Nissan x-trail on the recently mowed lawn. The beep from your car from the remote key wakes your wife up. You’re wasted on Ratish. Actually a combo of village ratish and whisky. Mouth edge, tobacco pipe. You stagger unsteadily as you support yourself with the recently installed gutters, heavy footsteps on the porch wake your toddler up. She cries amidst snorts and says “mommy, I have a nightmare”. She has had acute sinusitis for a week now. Must be the tobacco smoke. You see a while back, you’d use a wookee, down in the basement. Your mind, it has a sensitivity block. “open up Lia!” persistent loud knocks, “didn’t you hear me park up front?” 31st of December, 2018. The month of free brew and money spending on fuel as you go for your fellow drunkards whom you call bros. You’ve been drinking and driving, death is the least of your worries. You are just a kambaba in his early thirties who still uses the cliché you only live once. You have been married for three years now. You haven’t acted like it; you are only home on weekends. See your marriage life, is like half a worm in a half bitten apple. Quite alive, quite dead. Your wife lies to you most of the time, about her. About her problems. About her dreams. About the future of the family. She does this because you play “bird box”, but with your ears. You are the village braggart, most of what you possess is inherited. There has been very many broken promises. She’s grown tough skin. She sticks around for the family and for you. You are only around because of the child. In your drunken escapades, you will be sentimental about being happily married and unfaithful; as you vividly explain how it has been in your nasty encounters with your female patients. You are gynecologist. You see for your age; I do not expect you to be the cheering squad when the teenagers lap dance. I do not expect you to spank waitresses in the club. I most definitely will get disgusted when you use vulgar kikuyu language; it makes you look like a boy so eager to please. Manners maketh man. Quite sad that it has taken very long to acclimatize yourself to the ways of the real world, you spend very little time thinking about how other people will see you..

Tbc… Cappa 2018

Will.

He,,,He is everything that I’m not…quiet,boring,, helpful…..very unpredictable.. But still..my best friend.
I could say he has an iron fist…because his noogie just gets by brain to harden.. Like some sort of bent pipes..inside by head..he has the kind of eyes that beckon to be looked at….they are startling brown…the astonishing bloodshot veins that surround his glowing pupils like the strings of a red stained spiderweb….the ones that you stare into and you mouth-off…the kind that consume your thoughts and you feel a sense of belonging…a kind of hope sorta roots in your thinking pattern and your feet kind of wobble..
That’s my best friend..
He is not the kind that would flinch under scrutiny.. He’s actually the kind that minds his own business..you know…taking care of his side of the street…
That’s my bestie…
So bestie…I wanna care for you ….I know hurt people really hurt people…I wanna get rid of the poisonous cluster in your life…the ones that pull your loose threads unravelling the fabric of your past..the ones that deceive you with a piece of cake…only to find its baked alaska…with no qualms of conscience running through their melanated veins..
I know ….You’ve been hurt so many times you wouldn’t know true love if it hit you in the face…and I promise to change that… I know the world eats up nice guys…so please be bad….
*Regards C.Jules.*

ESCAPE.

So what if she actually told you that you are one in a million Huh?
Did she explain it to you?
Maybe you are a virus in a million of her leukocytes… Struggling to fit in the healthy environs within her bodily functions…. But of course you are blind and you couldn’t see that… You are actually a poison…thats what she means… And of course she has soldiers that fight back… Her feelings give her closure…. As she reminds herself over and over again it is all an act… You’re a waiting bay… And you’re still too blind to see that…
You get from home from work and her dopamine levels rise up knowing that she has to listen to your day’s bravado shenanigans… You’re still too blind to see that….
She cared for you… But you pulled away and disappeared into yourself many a time… She stuck around wounded by the mistrust….if you knew her the way you think you do… You’d bet on her and live to tell a love story….. But still… You’re still to blind to realize that she encourages you all the time… To go to game night at your friends… And you come back finding the house Spic and span…she now wears low cut blouses when she goes out… And not your shirts… The relationship has become too good.. And you’re still too blind to see that.. She feels trapped and powerless in your boredom… You betrayed her and she didn’t say a word about it… And now she’s cheating….to retaliate …her hatred for you has become so profound… She calls in sick daily… You give her an aspirin… And leave her to sleep… She tells you goodnight… And tells him good morning…to be continued.
*Escape*
*Cappa Jules 2018*

The wounded healer. Epi 2

Dear diary,
Day 362..
Out of fear we developed religion. And various belief systems to comfort us. I don’t know how you will take it, but I believe our names come with our ideas. It’s how we brand ourselves that creates a screenshot on most of the brains carried by those we meet mostly on a daily basis.
This might amuse you but of late I’ve met with men who are like unicorns… Psst. Should I visit a urinal see if they piss rainbows or what?
Enough with my imaginative weird chronicles.
THE WOUNDED HEALER epi 2.

“Clara, downstairs! I’m leaving.”

“Pa, I’ll take the school bus! “

“Damn the school bus. Do my pockets look like mints to you?! Don’t forget to take out the trash!”

These were one of my best mornings where my step father and I only exchanged a few words for breakfast…… He was a mean old mister…… I was only nineteen and everytime we ever talked… Or rather his mere presence in my life made me sing Carrie Underwood’s Blown away in my head. I’d gained an earworm kind of obsession for the song… Like some kind of hymn in my mental golden bells or something. Most of the times my step dad used to ignore me,,, and woe if he had a bad day he’d explode at me for no reason.. He was abusive and his involvement in my discipline as his “daughter” (ps-he always quoted that on my face) made him have rigid expectations,,, low empathy and an anger style of *power assertive* He always said that he was so glad he hadn’t taken part in my conception…that such decisions he would not make so long after sunset… or so far from dawn… Or ever in his life…

Anyway… Today the fuss was about trash … I’d been like the family scapegoat… Or blacksheep.. Or whatever… I was blamed for everything including the ozone layer…. The rain… His fart…. Name it.

All along I had acted as the “surrogate mother” when my own mother had gone to work… My innocence had been taken away a long time ago.

In some ways we were like an ordinary family… When my step dad was not around… Mum, I and the Volvo in the drive..

In other ways we weren’t so ordinary… Like when he unravelled his wrath… It was like an injection… Didn’t he ever like…. Get tired on twisting his eyebrows and making his fat moustache dance all the time… during the episodes of insults of course…. Damn the guy had a PhD in insults.

My mother (crippled) had only wanted a father figure…. And bills paid… Many a time I could witness tears form in her sunken eyes…like a rising watertable in an oasis of a network of eye capillaries …and maybe I felt a little for her… But not enough to make any difference… I suffer pain… But it is said… We all have pain…. Some it is physical… Some it is mental… Either out of injuries… Or living with the loss of a loved one. We fight or succumb to it. But if you think about it. .the results are the same…

Cappa Jules 2018

Take me back to life.

My dislike for the modern times has become almost uncontrollable. It has possessed me like a disease. It rises up my throat like acid reflux that “fashionable modern time sickness” as I would call it. I loathe what technology has done to the modern world.

Take me back.

Take me back to the time I’d never subconsciously compared my life to those of others.

Take me back to when I was never jealous that my friends has so much more fame… More money …more success..

Yes. I plant a lot of trees. I have multiple followers on social media. But at times I have to stop and ask myself why. Why post pictures? Who am I trying to impress? What am I chasing? What image am I trying to give off? Does it even matter?

Let’s face it. Failure is the condiment that gives success it’s flavor. Nobody on social media wants to fail. That’s why we travel and want to show everyone that we did. We graduate and the caps on our timelines with endless motivational clichés .. Countless. In oxygen we are trying to breathe.. And of course we start lusting for the things we’d never wanted in the first place.

People my age would know that, I would hate social media because I am emotionally dissatisfied, I’m always disappointed and I’m always having very high expectations for everything.

Man makes social media. Social media does not make man.

Cappa Jules 2018

The wounded healer.

Epi one:Rest in Pieces.

Everyone dies. It’s a simple fact of life. And when they do, many a times an obituary is needed for them. But in this

case, I’ll give one for the deceased. That’s me. My name is Clara. Clara Jacobs. Or ClaraJakes as known in the

neighbourhood. And in that casket, is the man i’d wished dead since the beginning of time. My step father. He hasn’t been

buried yet but I’d wished to call him the late early enough. *Sobs* There’s an adage that goes by, if you love

someone you gotta let them go. I don’t know if whoever came up with the latter meant it in a literal or more of

metaphoric meaning. He’d died of cancer. I’d watched him slowly die. I’d thanked the spirits that there was nothing

that I could do. I don’t think that dreadful sight would ever leave the viscinity of my remembrance though. It made my

heartbreak watching my mother’s hands tremble and her feet tap against the church tiles. I could only fidget on

seeing her face covered with tears….given that she still had allergic conjunctivitis. Poorsoul. She had been very

weak. She never foughtback, she never defended herself. She just existed.

On my step father’s death-bed,the nurse had called him *prettydelicate*.SMH.That too much stimulation would be

detrimental to him. Nonsense. My skin crawled at the thought of having to speak to him,the thought of him possibly

expecting to reconcile. It was just too much. But then I saw him. His skin was pale. His eyes sunken in and his once

thick hair was almost completely gone. His face was a mass of gore. I didn’t feel bad though. No. I’d never felt

anything for him. He was such a Goliath of a man back then and now he was barely even a shell of that. Funny enough,

he still insulted me on his deathbed…..Enough was enough. This man was a shadow,,,,and how do you kill a shadow?

Simple. Pour light on it.

To be continued…

™Confession of an incest survivor

Cappa Jules