Of My African Mindset

Dear world, Black people cannot be racist. Take this to the bank,.. As time and years have proved, black people have more problems than just sitting and comparing colors. A black man can be compared to a faithful dog. Submissive to his master and very much ready to do any job, anything for food, a piece of meat in a land full of greens. A black man is the only creature who starves in a country of fertile lands, waits the whole day for fish at the shores of the ocean. Rows his boat months an end to fend for a family of twelve. A black man has many problems. He creates many gods to satisfy his longing to belong, to be loved. To feel important in his own land. He makes a god to lead him into his own promised land. Through religion, he is comfortable in being blind folded into the belief of a god of others. He is contented. He is a descendant of the Father of the land of far. A black man has power problems. He loves oppression. And at the mention of power, he will sell

Some time back,  I was stuck in a situation I didn't like. I was in a group discussion where the group leader made jokes(or so he thought he did) whereby we were expected to laugh. Well, if you are a comedy fun, you may have realized that there’s intelligent comedy and just plain comedy. To me, not everything is funny. “Your mama is so fat-kinda joke…” is really not funny to me. I wouldn't dare break a muscle over such high school jokes. Knock-Knock jokes, well, let me rewind to my kindergarten days. Well, in this discussion, I was literally being tortured, not because of the jokes, but mostly because I couldn’t stand and walk out. You see, this was a  sane enough guy  who had helped me secure a good job..(well, aint that life?) Anyway, things went well till he realized I wasn’t single as I claimed to be. Seriously, even if I got paid for it, this is a guy I would never have time for coffee with. So suddenly, as soon as he realized my chitty chats became less and les

If death were like sleep It, I would make, my sole destiny of choice Then, I would love to die Forget all worries of the world Close my eyes..just shut Build castles of mast Have wings and hug men Men of good faces Men of all phases Or just give a kiss to my neighbor Is death like sleep? Maybe, or difference be the weep? Will I walk in mazes of chaff? Run wild and kiss Jack? Till my body vibrates in wet foams? Well, I do hope so I would then love to die With no stress of my bosses Or the pricks of life's losses Walk and smile to no one Just me and and my fun fancies But I highly doubt That death is like sleep Because all my body would be, Is just a still rock that no one wants to look twice Poet:  carolyn gatonye

Life is not a rehearsal. Life is not high school either; life, is a concept of making something of oneself; whereby you take a route, (just once) never to return. so that you can have the opportunity of looking back and claim to have lived!  Life,  is the only route we take once. To never return. The only route we take to places we believe are better, more exciting...defined by decisions of hurt, pain, belief and faith in things unknown. making new friends, new enemies, taking pieces beneficial in the journey. Yet somewhat we tend to stagnate; have this weird notion that we can live again. A syndrome of some sort. The Muga Syndrome I call it. Once I shared a class with a Muga guy. A clingy little boy who believed life revolved around the four walls of our high school classroom. While at that young age, for most of us,  everything was all about competition, from the books, to who would be the teacher's pet. So in this, Muga found a high place to settle. Muga was home. HE was

It’s an imagery of phony. Everyone coming to witness the passing on, of a young man “taken from us too soon”. The crowd is huge. All a mixture of a froth of rich, the middle class and a bunch of the “waste” of society. Everyone here to catch a glimpse of a hero, a mentor, a savior that “died for his country”. I stand at a shade, shadows of old trees without doubt shedding my body from the glares of strangers who would undress me with their bare eyes.  I bother not to follow the damn customs, no black dress, no black hat. Am not here to mourn, because like many here, am here to witness the call of death. Am not at all embarrassed and possibly I am the only one here who will not be bothered by the pitiful hymns that escort the man to heaven. I care not. For to me, death is just but a thin line between it and life. The frail, dark guy you see near the casket is the Father to the deceased. Yes, all crumpled up from head to toe with the stench of alcohol. Around the casket stan