“See, that’s the thing these legends share, beyond the trophies and the highlights. They remind us that ‘poetry has always been a contact sport.’ Ali’s rhymes, Jordan’s hangtime, Maradona’s dribble, Pelé’s touch – they weren’t just playing games. They were touching hearts, sparking dreams, planting ‘seeds of a 1000 tomorrow’s.’ They made us believe the impossible was just a flick, a jump, a kick away…”
To the Keepers of the Small Suns
The real secret, the one whispered in the dark between exhausted sighs and sudden, overwhelming bursts of love, is far simpler, far messier, far more profound: Presence.
I see you. Not the curated snapshot, but the raw footage.
I see the dad within every mother: the way you wrestle on the floor, teaching resilience through tickles, your voice dropping an octave for the silly monster voice, the firm hand holding a tiny one steady on a bike, even when your own knees tremble. I see the protector, the boundary-setter, the one showing them how to build forts and face fears, all wrapped in a scent that’s uniquely, comfortingly you.
I see the mother within every man: the astonishing tenderness as you cradle a feverish head against your chest at 4 AM, humming a tune you didn’t know you knew. The infinite patience untangling hair matted with glitter glue. The way you notice the slight droop of a lip before the tears even fall, the instinctive offering of a lap, a story, a quiet “I’m here.” The fierce, nurturing flame that burns just as bright.
This blending, this beautiful, necessary confusion of roles – that’s the secret. It’s not about biology or boxes. It’s about showing up, fully human, offering whatever part of your heart the moment demands…”
The Unraveling and the Becoming
“She slipped the handmade dress on. It was snug now, a little short. Imperfect. Real. She looked in the mirror, not at the tired eyes or the slightly-too-tight seams, but at the woman emerging. The one who carried her mother’s quiet strength in her bones, even as she navigated her own path. The bills were still there. The job was still demanding. The boundaries would need constant tending. But the crushing weight felt… different. Lighter, somehow, infused with a new understanding.
Aging, she realized, wasn’t an accident of time, but a necessary unfolding. The bills, the burnout, the battles for boundaries – they weren’t just obstacles to survive. They were the chisel, the fire, the relentless current shaping the stone, tempering the steel, carving the riverbed of her true self. Each hardship, each hard-won boundary, each moment of choosing compassion over resentment, was revealing her own character, line by weathered line. The becoming hurt. It was exhausting. But beneath the weariness, a new kind of strength, bittersweet and deeply earned, began to bloom…”
The Seamstress With a Diaspora Soul
“So, what’s my favorite thing about myself? In this swirling vortex of identity, this constant negotiation between here and there, then and now? It’s the seamstress within. This fierce, unyielding spirit that gathers the disparate threads – the inherited proverbs, the adopted slang, the ancestral resilience, the learned cynicism, the unshakeable hope, the polished lies and the raw, unvarnished truths. She sits at the loom of my being, fingers flying. She doesn’t try to force a single, seamless fabric. No. She revels in the visible stitches, the contrasting textures. She weaves a thread where Kente patterns clash gloriously with tartan plaid, where a griot’s cadence underpins a hip-hop beat. She makes the dissonance harmonious. She turns the fractured mosaic into a vibrant, undeniable whole…”
A Memory Crowned
“I own the memory.
It starts with paper, crisp and bright, a prize held in small hands… The library, a fortress tall, where whispered tales held me in thrall, And borrowed wonders filled the hall Within my mind, encompassing all.
This childhood, loved, is what I keep, Not locked away, not buried deep, But vibrant, waking, in my sleep. It is the oldest thing I own, A garden fully grown, From seeds of wonder brightly sown. For daily, still, I open wide The books that stood at childhood’s side… Each page I turn, a vibrant haunt, Where past and present freely daunt The linear march of time’s advance. This daily ritual, this quiet dance, Is memory’s enduring, bright romance.
The oldest thing? Not shelf nor tome, But this: the child within this home… I own the memory, safe and sound, The oldest treasure, daily crowned…”
When the Sky Forgets How to Hold Water!
Then the deluge. Rain doesn’t fall here; it attacks. It’s horizontal, vertical, diagonal – auditioning for a role in a cyclone movie. Children shriek, transforming puddles into instant oceans, launching stick-boats manned by bewildered beetles. Goats, caught mid-nibble, stand frozen, looking deeply offended. Auntie Carol’s laundry, pegged out in defiant hope five minutes prior, now becomes abstract art, dripping sadly. “My good sheets!” she wailed, shaking a fist at the sky, drowned out by the drumming on the tin roof…
Overwhelming Waves
“The day she slipped beneath the surface for the last time, the river outside our window seemed to swell, mirroring the chasm opening inside me. Overwhelming Waves crashed not on a distant shore, but within the confines of my own chest. Grief wasn’t a single wave; it was the Turbulent river of my dreams, dark and Beckoning me to submerge…”
DMT 