Open Letter to Suicide

Dear Suicide,

You really seem like all I’ve got left right.

Every minute brings me closer to you. Because I just can’t hold on to this thing that’s supposed to be a life.

I’ve fought your call, I swear I have. But it seems there’s no saving me from you.

Perhaps you’re all I’ve got left.

I fear for the pain I’ll feel, even more for the pain I’ll cause.

I’m sure someone out there loves me. Is that love enough to save me from you?

I should get some help, but it seems the only way is to fall into your embrace.

Maybe you’re the only place I can ever find peace.

With you at least, all the thinking will stop.

There’ll be no need to worry, about tomorrow, or going outside. The dark thoughts will have no place to live with blown out brains.

The heartache, no place to dwell if all the blood is drained.

Yet, I’m still fighting to hold on. I don’t want to be alive, but do I want to die?

There’s no way tomorrow will ever be better, but what if.

What if you’re just a sentence for brimstone and fire, or a million new lives.

What if you’re not the answer I seek?

How many breathes do I have left?

Will you steal the last one?

Last Wishes,



Waiting for the Yellow Umbrella


There’s talk of weddings and baby prams. Your social media feed is all snaps of dates nights, double rendezvous and group activities. You’ve become the permanent odd wheeler.

You’re happy being a single bee, you know that’s where you need to be right now. But there’s still this feeling in your guy, a longing you can’t explain. You admit it’s be nice to have a human pillow, and someone to buy couples tickets with (hey they’re cheaper), a human to stay up all night with and all the mush stuff with. You start to think your dreams of travelling the world would be better with a hand holder.

Flings and one night stands aren’t your thing though. All the serial dating is just exhausting.

You’re reality however doesn’t just agree with your dreams right now.

It’s hard to explain. You’re old friends are no longer here because they’re striking out all the couple goal. Your feminist sisters would disapprove and launch a podcast. It’s not a fear of never meeting the one, it’s knowing that even if you did right now, it would never work out.

It’s not just the cliché “knowing yourself phase”

It’s the fact that you’re constantly transitioning. Job to job, city to country, maybe a new academic adventure, all the healing another human can’t help with. Love would me disastrously unfair to your heart and more so, to that of any you dared to love.

So, what now? How do you stand all the love songs? How do you smile at all the dinners? How do you endure all the small talk on the setups?


What’s Really on My Mind….

Another black woman has ended her life.  She’ll trend for a few days and her story will be forgotten. But hey, hashtag BraamSuicide

Paul Kagame could be president of Rwanda till 2034. Sure he’s created a development miracle but her, we though Amin and Mugabe were heroes at some point.

Nigerians can revert a music powerhouse to an upcoming artist but have really no control over the government. Can we Fizzle our president? Can we Ice Buhari?

I’m up at 23:33 pm trying to get through university. And I’ve got class at 8am. Will I trend as #MidrandSuicide.

I wonder

23 Days Moist

Another October.I know I’m not the only one who gets all gloomy as another birthday approaches. Panicking about everything that hasn’t happened yet, that in your mind should already have. Worrying about all the uncertainty. Longing for things, for something, for a person, but not even being sure what exactly it is you’re longing for. Reflecting on every failure but never giving yourself enough credit for the little things you’ve achieved and how far you’ve come.

Alas, stuck in this pathetic loop carrying the same old baggage because let’s face it I’m still the same scared to feel, terrified to let go human I’ve been for all my teen years. , I never give anyone the chance to help me carry it. Blame it the trust issues, the fear of abandonment. Yes people aren’t always there, but even when they are, letting them in just makes dying is silence feel like heaven.

Same baggage you may not even need help with, I think. You just to put them down, that’s it. But to do that you have to be willing to let go, you have to admit they’re there, geez you have to know that they even exist.

It’ll be my last teen year in 23/22 days (I’m not sure how you count it). I want to give myself a chance, not for anyone else, but for me.

I deserve a chance to feel, without worrying about being a fortress for everyone else. It’ll be hard, caring is creepy. But it’s worth a shot, being impenetrable and soulless have only gotten me so far. I’m giving myself a chance to enter the world of Drake and moistness.

God help you all.

……and the rapists

This piece contains rather sensitive subject matter. We’re starting to talk about victims. But what about the other part of rape culture, the perpetrators. I’m not excusing any behaviour or trying to preach seeing the other person’s perspective I wonder what it’s like on the other side.

So they say rape changes two lives. That of the victim, and that of the perpetrator. You both never remain the same.

But it’s more than both of you. It’s all the lives that are intertwined with yours’.

For the victim,

It’s the lover that will need patience and tenderness for you to open up. The family that will feel they failed you. The strangers you’ll distrust probably irrationally. The friends that will try to support you, however awkwardly. The children you’ll bear only to over protect.

But what about that rapist?

We sometimes see victims brave enough to open up and tell their story; I’ve sort of told this story.

But what about the one who did it?

Do their lives ever go on? Do some of them feel remorse? Wish they could take it back?

For the victim, they tell you the first step to healing is talking, finding a safe place? Well what about the one who did it? Will their conscience ever be clear? Even if I forgave them would they be able to live with themselves? Or will they forever see me as the one they tainted?

The one you love pours out their heart to you in shame. They were 17 and trying to impress their friends. They were 20 and drunk with the victim. They were 15 and a misguided adult told them they had a right because the victim was asking for it. They were once the victim and wanted to a turn at being the aggressor. They want to take it back.

He told me he hated himself for tainting me, that he attempted o take his own life. That he’s too ashamed to seek help. He was also victim. A part of me wants to see him suffer, to feel pain and shame worse than mine. But I know too well what this feeling can do to a person, and I want him to get better.

But who walks them through this? Your homie tells your his dark secret. The one you love drops this bomb. Would you love them either way?

2 am Thoughts

20170827_025355-1Welcome to my 2 am thoughts. A wonderland of fluffy marshmallowy thoughts wrapped in layers of the dark and disturbing.

Welcome to my 2 am thoughts a place of contemplation, a life decisions weighed out on a table of pros and cons. Sometimes, rash actions to be regretted with sunrise are carried out.

At 2 am the emotions are raw and unfiltered, often desperate and filled with longing. The heart is either aching or the stomach is filled with butterflies and midnight cakes.

Mind may be incoherent.

Our circles are often never quite as we like to meet at night in a place of dreams filled with cuddle worthy felines. But we may be somewhat lonely.

At 2 am, we restlessly wait for morning, or pray it never arrives.

We regret and reminisce, over the things past. We worry and hope, for the things to come.

We have another cup of hot chocolate. We sing. We practice the movement of our feet to our favourite song. We end up with the wrong lover, or call the right one.

We poet. We write a rambling blog post. We talk a walk under the moonlight and hope that we make it to morning because, society. We go back to bed.

It’s somewhere around 2 am.

Conqueror ?


You gasp for air. Then you’re breathless.

Your heart skips a beat. Then it bangs on your chest.

Your mind is void of thoughts. Then they all come flooding in.

Screaming ghosts, that mimic the sound of your mother’s kettle boiling on the stove.

Is this Clarity? Is this Tragedy?

Your tummy imitates diarrhoea.

So many words. Yet none are left.

When your lover.

Hands you back your heart.