Cooked Potatoes

Love is an act of Will Will is an act of Love The centre of my Will Is in the core of my body So it sprouts like a young tree In the middle of my belly button El Amor es un acto de Voluntad La Voluntad es un acto de Amor El corazón de mi Voluntad Está en el centro de mi cuerpo Y  surge como árbol joven En el medio de mi ombligo

Opinionated, “she is opinionated” read a teacher’s report, at Art College. I had barely spent one year in London, my accent, my wildness and my ‘opinions’ were still intact, unrefined. Now, over thirty years later, my accent is softer, my opinions are just as strong and getting stronger with time in spite of my ‘spiritual training’. I cannot help having opinions in the face of the world I see. And I still find it incomprehensible why having ‘opinions’ is such an unacceptable thing.  One conclusion I have come to is that if you are going to have opinions you better be outstanding and voice them forcefully or you'll be trodden on in a country where the colonial past is engraved in its citizens DNA. Just like our colonised past is engraved in ours. So I write to affirm my rebelliousness. I write not to pick fights. I write because all I have is life experiences. I am told sometimes, by well intentioned friends I need to leave the past behind; I should not read the news; I shou...

There is a poem in my head for you, From a long way back. I remember you Johana in your little cane house and your four children playing in the mud. Pretty, the colour of honey Woman/child The contraband between your breasts And your smile giving us light. Johana in your bicycle bringing me breakfast of fried plantains and rum. Friend jumping for joy in the puddles of your yard on seeing me arrive When you, he, I, all Were healthier, prettier, better. In a world where one is worth What the last cent, I know I counted on you. Johana always to my rescue; That day for the escape you lend me your sandals, another day you came to fetch me in a cab. My only friend Johana. The horror of your instant death an afternoon of  Easter Saturday Pa! Pa!...papapapapapa! Pa! Pa! Papapapapapapa! I Heard from my house Nine millimetre discharge  resounded in the distance and at that moment someone fell How to imagine it was yo...

Today the cords just want to be cords and the beads, beads. A pause in time; fingers basking in the autumn sun like lazy nursing sharks... No cutting, knotting, weaving, typing, thinking. Oh but the mind she never stops. She somersaults, works out a knot. Frets over what she owes to be and she is not I push my lazy little fingers into action. Cut, knot, weave, type...think All one should be and one is not.