A Song of Water and Fire

Between her legs, she was patchouli: earthy and musky smell,           sweet yet smoky, a balance of sweetness and romance—           and for the rest of the night, I tasted her tanginess.

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When I first met him, he was a wanderer, gypsy
          his eyes thirsty
          and his body fire—

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When I first saw her, she was a wonder, water
          to put out fire.

Photo by Ric Rodrigues from Pexels.com

The fountain between my legs dripped, gushy
          from the same spot of a leaking roof.

Photo by John Rocha from Pexels.com

Fire burnt from the pit of my stomach, hot coals
          and I knew I had a home.

You will never wander anymore, Gypsy, I told him.

Between her legs, she was patchouli: earthy and musky smell,
          sweet yet smoky, a balance of sweetness and romance—
          and for the rest of the night, I tasted her tanginess.

Keep it that way, I told him and put out the fire.

Image by 0fjd125gk87 from Pixabay

Slum Dog’s Slam Dunk

First published on Storymoja and Shortlisted for June Drama Photo Contest The bell knelled at last. Jimmy heaved a sigh of relief. The last fifteen minutes had felt like an

Deaths of Right (Part II)

Take care of my children. His voice never left me. There were nights that I dreamed in such vivid detail that when I woke, I was confused, forgetting, for a fraction of a second, that I was in my bed. For the minutes that followed, the grief washed over me for the loss of a friend who had had my back, the uselessness of my life fighting for the imperialism of a country that didn’t care for me. Part of me wondered if the dreams would change, if one day they would be the same monochrome shadows of before Somalia.

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