Written by Sheila Kal
From the poetic series: Adding Colour to Water
Soon, it’ll be three years since I buried my hair below the Mwarubaini you planted. I wouldn’t call it a ritual, Uncle; I only noticed the absence and the call neither of us could take. The man I want to love says I walk with grief in my eyes; a sadness so unique he would have no difficulty finding me in the dark. Sometimes, I want to ask him to stop and let me be but that would mean I’m not trying enough and neither is the zolpidem nor the quetiapine.
A different lover didn’t/couldn’t say it but his harshness did: that I am like space; all the suns and universes live inside me but if a man were to come into me unveiled, his light would be pulled out and he would remain another dead floating mass. I only tell you all this because you will not say much back. I know you know I mean to go by your grave when I see your mother each December but I have yet to.
When I am my oldest self again. When my cry is no longer louder than my voice. When I am not buried underneath my hurt. When the dirt is nourishing and not suffocating. When I am myself again, I will walk back this way and sing, “My heart is no fist; I am a mushroom who takes in all things but still grows.”
I am a wind that disturbs beings, still leaves, concrete, and the sea. When I am myself again, I will run back this way and ask you to be at peace because I will be until then, this silence is what I bring within and without; is it appealing?
