Happy birthday Mums, I wish you more years.
Mums, grow.
But I am scared of when you die.
I know it is part of life
(c) meuna
Tag Archives: love
My secret is that:
Nobody knows that I died a long time ago.
But she would have known,
Even from the slab at Melen.
She just slept.
She never liked hard surfaces,
Preferring the 6 cushion couch
Of red yellow and orange circles of my childhood.
I still remember the watery smells that danced the Burlesque
Of firefly magic from Lake Wum on my childhood days.
The chairs sat under a family of 20 with 1 mother.
Yes, same chairs followed us to Yaoundé, where
She'd start the TV shows with me and then slip away.
Then I like a bad dream would slowly touch her skin awake:
"Mum you should go to bed now".
The show was over.
She would rise then go to sleep.
In a 6-foot hole in Baligham.
(c) nyonglema
My little flower #love
Down by the shore of city life, I found my little flower:
White lily shining fragrance the size of the Eiffel tower.
Unexpected the feeling of finding beauty right here,
Down by the shore of the rush of life, on the pier.
Down I stooped and scooped the softly petals,
And a whiff of joy made my feeble heart unsettle
The petals so brave were not the frail of despair
But showed the strength of surviving hostile care.
The sepals seemed to have done their fair share,
Cradling the white and shunning life's scares.
Their green sang odes to my heart's singing strings,
Like the rebirth as deep winter announces spring
By the shore of city life, I held the peduncle
And tucked it into my tangled hair's crunkles.
"Journey with me through all of life's worst despair,
My little flower, through life, surviving hostile care"
(c) nyonglema
9
9 is like something uncompleted, but with a tinge of very special.
If God multiplied Himself, there would be 9 of Him.
It could have taken 9 wise men to avoid Herod's whim
And those 3 little pigs if nine were quite the team.
9 is like something still being perfected, but already very Godlike
Like the 9 lives of a cat, which signifies eternity
Or my will for the whole nine yards with you with me
Or me on cloud nine at your breath forming "sweety"
9 melts the soul, mends the heart, and lifts the mind to new
Planes like you, always dressed to the nines,
Or me caught for nine years like wheel and spline
In the magic of your curves, thoughts and mind.
My golden adorned finger still sings the joys of December,
And memories flutter around my mind like butterflies amber
Probing the nectar from a pollen filled field, smiling as they taste
The joys of being you, and near you. 13 years seems like the haste
Of a boy to the Christmas tree, but it's not toy-time yet,
It's just a celebration of you and me, when hearts met
Lips formed forever, and hands sealed like cymbals
And the Seraphins played along as 9 years are just a symbol
To hold firm the objective in a beautiful God-wrought gimbal.
(c) nyonglema
Ego #divorce
What are we teaching our kids? Life is becoming so demanding, that we don’t tolerate each other. Life has become so artificial, that we have forgotten that we are just apes trying to figure out how to make each day better.
As more and more couples break, I cry for humanity whose young are learning that this is normal, and our society which teaches to give up once they going gets tough, as if relationships were a bottle of vodka at the corner store: if you don’t like this one, you can have that one. Let’s walk the pain of life and relish it…that’s the only solution to abuse.
“Be strong, my child, never give up!”
The surgeon is pulling my soul out with kind words,
No anaesthasia, just kind swords hacking at me,
Taking away myself in lumps of tumour.
It had metastasised and eaten the bond away.
The bond that made me. The bond that made me me.
“You must be strong in the face of adversity”
Said he as instead of treating his humour
He became weak in the adversity of his university love.
I remember the smiles and kisses they told;
Stories of times that now seem wrinkled and old
Where they held hands, and wore bands
And raised lands, and made me.
“Never give up, never ever!”
Said he who was giving up on us
Giving up on me, because he couldn’t stand
To sacrifice anymore.
Because she couldn’t stand to grace his side no more,
No submission from either.
My tumour had birth a pride so big
It ate the bond, the bond, the bond that made me me.
“Learn to tolerate tough situations, they make you strong”
And two wrongs, only make me write
Pain in the blood of my cornea, calling to the corners
Of their hearts where love is boxed in, caged in,
Fighting larger-than-life versions of themselves
And losing, like my soul’s pain loosened to wander,
Yet I should bend only to my will, and tolerate
To be as successful as they’ve been along the way.
Ego.
Tolerate?
Ego.
Never give up?
Ego.
Fix me up, fix you up, fix us up?
Ego?
Like “No” from the depth of a grave,
I killed my family in Latin.
(c) nyonglema
Shooting your foot #Cameroon
I told him exactly the same as I’m telling you now:
The gun you point at your people is a gun you point
At your pupil, or at your pupils, or through a peephole
Into a future with LED lights lining trees capturing
Sunlight, and lightning, a future enlightened
By the lightness of the smiles of generations to come
A peephole looking back at the nozzle of a barrel.
I knew he wouldn’t listen, for without the ash splattered
Against my mane wisdom cannot be part of my game.
All their epithelia are the same, waiting for epitaphs
Epilogue to tales where epic lies dominate photographs
Of instants of truth, painful truth….like the peephole
And the barrel, and they’ve seen it all, the seed to the tree
The stream to the river, the whole range of our history
I knew he wouldn’t listen, nor read, nor taste of my sweat,
But maybe my blood, so I painted myself like the others
Vehement in thoughts dancing entrapped in cages of fear
Where the lines on the 60 leaves plane-leaved exercise book
Jump off the page where you jotted your deepest hopes for
Change, change into pain, twist your arms and pull your fingers
Around them. They turn into metal, and you’re looking out,
Wishing for a desk, a pen, but not even a toilet for your rear’s near.
But I know He will listen. He doesn’t read these words
He feels them. He sees my prayer that we’d stop crowding Peter’s
Waiting room: the logistics department had to order new magazines,
About cars, about medicine about emptying magazines on citizens,
To accommodate the throng waiting for their lift to the final
Destination: Heaven or Hell. The water dispenser needs refilling,
This place wasn’t designed for such affluence…well there was Noah,
Or better still his time, but there was enough notice for facilities
To be put in place. Not this time…but I know He listens.
So, they told him exactly as I tell you now:
When words can save the souls of many,
Lay Guns to rest by Pride’s old body
And dare to save another’s soul today
For face to face mountains all decay.
(c) nyonglema
At the gate #missingYou
So many faces, but none of them is you.
You know this feeling of the crowd anonymously many
And the voices I want to Shazam, for none of them is yours.
My plane is late again, and this pain lingers on
Like a foul smell in the air. I wish to be airborne
That I know you’re not a car ride away
That I’d know that I can’t hold you for good reasons
That the sword may go through the heart and kill me
Than linger over my chest like a purgatory leading to hell.
The pain will come, the pain will run as long as I’m not near holding you here, kissing you there, telling you that, whispering this, listening to those, holding you close.
But for now I’m at the gate, and the plane’s late.
I’m looking out the window to where you are, and I can’t go there, I can’t see you here.
So many faces, so many voices but I’m steeped in the silence and absence of you.
(c)nyonglema
Truth or dare? #RIP #hope
No neither.
I see… I see bird droppings zoom out the sky and
And…
Humans drop looking for luck in different spheres.
The crowd panics. Not felled yet, trees stand
And run for the woods where leaves shield.
And…
I see droppings hit the leaves, souls leave the trees.
Truth or dare?
No, neither.
Silence is the ether that burns the soul of the soldier.
Nobody believes the wood was felled,
As no noise was made when it fell in the woods.
Everybody says deforestation is a lie.
There were no birds, there were no trees,
There is no Earth, there is no you, nor me.
Just truth caught in a dare:
Dare to exist,
Dare to pervade,
Dare to be exchanged or dare to grow.
It lurks in the backdrop of wood becoming coffins.
It seeks to become a speaker box,
It seeks the Carpenter to heal the wounds,
But as is the case often, nobody wants to be true or dare.
Pride rides the pain of the thuds on Atlas’ load,
Rippling through his bones, and he bumps on the trees.
Then he screams: “Speak ye truth! speak to each other, in truth!”
And the leaves rustle,
And they listen.
And the felling stops,
And the yelling stops,
And truth dares to bare itself on the forest floor as
A shoot luscious green, midribs transfigured
In the shimmer of the star of the amber dawn.
(c) nyonglema
Communication can hurt or heal, it all depends on the wielder. But I’ve seen the simple exchange of perspectives lead to new solutions yet unheard of, which lead to bright futures for people whose positions hitherto seemed so radical that no consensus was possible.
Let’s dare to challenge our status quo. The future is ahead of, not behind us
Happy anniversary #marriage
These are a few words you can surprise your special other with on the day both of you publicly agreed to walk the special path of marriage. Use ad libertam!
Caveat: make sure they read past the first 4 lines …if not it may not end too nicely lol
You know I nearly forgot about today, and it’s all your fault!
Every day is the same, the damn same routine…and it’s your fault.
I didn’t expect this when I signed up, the fermentation of our malt.
But, every day is the same, the damn same routine…and it’s your fault.
You make each day shine the haloes round the sun into my nights,
You make each moment a golden drop bringing the hourglass light
And I didn’t expect this when I signed up, fermentation of our malt
Into refreshing beverage, dancing on my palate, soothing my bone aches
Healing my sore days, breathing for me the fragrance of lilies
But you know I nearly forgot today, and it still is all your fault,
For filling each day with the same magic of the first “I do”
And this day is same, another blessing from above in you.
(c) Nyonglema
Talking to glass #mum #RIP
They say glass is made from sand, and I’ve witnessed
In documentaries how men take the so-rough-and-ugly
To make these marvelous pieces, that hold the best
Wine, whiskey, temperature, treasure. I had treasure once;
It wasn’t made of glass, but I lost it by my fault
And watched it pour into oblivion ounce by ounce.
I watched it freeze away, as my heartbeat slowed to nought,
And my smile blew away in the breathlessness of the air
Whispering to some distant mage: “This once I sought”
Injury of the soul beyond your finger on a sharp glass slice
And yes, I could feel the stitches coming lose where it dashed
For me. But the voice to save me is gone behind closed lies.
You know, lies like “I’m still here”, “I’m just sleeping”
Meanwhile the wood sips my warmth away, and nothing responds
To my smile calling away the tears, as all around me are weeping.
Where are those smiths to make a diamond from my broken hour glass?
Since glass holds the best, can I add some salt from my heart?
Oh, how it drills into my whole
That As my light the glass holds,
Leaving me in the dark staring into my resting past
It’s just a mirror for you and me, lost and forever apart.
(c) Nyonglema
This is for my dear mum Gaffo, gone to the Lord in 2009. I’ll never forget staring at her lovely face through the glass of her coffin, smiling at her, and so hurt that I’ll never see that smile again, that she will not smile back.
waghni 