uNTangLing MyseLF

I have asked myself this question many times. How then does one qualify to be called a man? Is it a standard to rally to, Is there a criterion that measures the mettle of boys and elevates them to the gloried status of manhood. So long we have been led to believe that a man is an adult human male. Surely,  age alone is not enough to earn one this noblest of tittles.  Should it perhaps be measured by the breadth of one's chest? Should it be evidenced by the appearance of pubic hair? Should we perhaps measure a man, by the size of his genitals? On a lighter note, If that is the case, then I qualify.  Should we perchance, measure a man by the number of ladies he has intercoursed?  All the above, perhaps, are a part of manhood, essentially they are important. But I for one is of the opinion that they alone do not, should not, qualify a person to be called a Man. The name, man, surely embodies more than that. Therefore, I ask again. Who is a man?  A man mustn’t only ...

Whats' in a name, a sense of identity? Some supposed ideal suggesting purpose and belonging? I fail to understand why so much importance is attached to names. Names are just that, names. I’d like to think that Dennis does not fully encompass the individual I am. Indeed, I would go ahead and categorically state that Dennis is not me. Perhaps, right now, you are thinking that Dennis Ohuru has lost it, perhaps you are thinking, "what the hell he is talking about anyway."  Indulge me, allow me to expound, I say Dennis is not me for the following reasons. Dennis is not an explanation, neither is it a definition, Dennis is just, what they mention to get my attention.  The name in itself doesn’t elaborate my deepest desires, nor does it reveal the passion and ambition that is fundamental to the person I am. My name doesn’t in any way showcase my abilities and talents, nor does it instantly grant knowledge of the inner workings of my brain to third parties upon introduction. That...

I have been alive long enough to know that life is all about making memories. There is a phenomenon that science and human ingenuity in all its unrivalled brilliance has failed to solve; ageing. We are born, we grow, we grow, we grow still, we grow old, then we die. That’s just how life is. I have no problem with that; death scares the shit out of me like everyone else, I don’t have to like it, but I accept it. Because the secret to happiness is accepting what you can’t change. And so I have always known and accepted the fact that one Wednesday, I will die. Yet right now, at this moment, I am alive, and it falls on me to create the best memories I can so that when my day comes, I am not filled with regrets of what could have been. My word, to anyone that will listen, is, eat what you want to eat, wear what you want to wear, love whoever you want to love, be the person you want to be. Because in the end, your life is yours to live. So live it on the edge, turn a new page each and every ...

What is the purpose of existence, what is our position in the scheme of things?  Is there a reason behind our existence, or are just pawns in some great galactic game. To be born, live miserably short lives, most of it spent in an unfruitful pursuit of happiness, then die and be forgotten. Have you, like me, ever wondered, if indeed human beings are sentient, are we really awake and aware, or are we programmed, destined to lord over the less intelligent animals, cursed with an urge for self-actualization, a figment of our imagination.  Humanity at its most basic and fundamental state is flawed, the society is segmented into classes according to wealth. Everyone is born and bound to circumstances, not of their making.  And as they grow, they are made to do things in a way that is NORMAL and ACCEPTED by society.  “Go to school.”  "Why?"  "Because everyone goes to school." "Dress this way and not that way.”  "Why?" "That is how PEOPLE dress." ...

Do not love me like your shadow… Because at night it is not by your side… Do not love me like a pillow… Because even though you are together all night, you rarely meet by day… Do not love me like honey… Because honey,albeit sweet, is common place… Do not love me like a new dress… A new dress soon wears out and you love it no more… Love me like a good dream… From which you do not wish to wake… Love me like your favorite bag… That which holds things dear to you… Love me like you found everything you were looking for in me… Love me like your favorite chocolate flavor… Which when finished, leaves a lingering taste in your mouth… Do not love me for anything else, love me for me.

I had a wristband, a beautiful thing, of many colours, given me by a past love. Diana was her name. She said never to take it off because as long as I had it on, she would always be in my heart. She is in my heart still, so I guess it's true. The colours are symbolic, she said. The colours are the definition of every moment we've gone through, Red, yellow, green and white. Yellow Is for the happy times,  The laughter we shared... The moments we fell in love over and over again... White Is for the tranquil and calm times. The times we didn't need words to communicate... The times we saw each other in each other's eyes... The times we held hands... The times we just smiled at each other. Green The hard times... The times that memories of better times kept us going... The times we felt like giving up on each other... Red The romantic times... Her skin was so touchable. Her lips were so kissable. The caresses, no reason, no explanation, no why, no how, just now.

The details of Yester evening remain solidly plastered on my cerebellum…  My eyes were idly roving my surroundings, that’s until they fell on her… And yes, I fell in love. Not only with her face, her face, the definition of beauty. And not only with her grace, her slow, booty rolling, hip-swinging gait. But also with her legs, especially her legs, Mon Dieu!!! She had holy legs. Holy because the English language doesn’t have a better word, and even if it has, there is just no better way to word it. This lady had a way of stretching those beautiful, long, sexy, never-ending walking apparatus to a beat in my mind that suggested illegal things. The way my fingers could steal their way up those goddess's legs, draw minute patterns up on those fleshy thighs, damn! What the fuck am I saying! Back to the story, before my optical telescopes could get accustomed to Miss leggy leggy, she went around a corner and was forever lost to me. But I will remember those legs...

All my life, rarely if ever, have I beheld a fille with attractions so calculated to bewitch a garcon. I would, if I could, make you mine. Your sweet face. Crowning the body of a  Venus . I could only gaze at creations  genius . I do not know if what words I write make sense, They could be nonsense…I do not care. All I know is you are the definition of beauty… You with your splendid eyes and charming smile. I could traverse many miles, navigate many a Nile. If I knew that smile and its owner awaited me at my journey's end.   I still cannot make up my mind whether am glad or sad that fate should have thrown you in my path. A few hours then you were gone, but I will remember you, Naomi. You are to me, and will always be. La belle Anunda.

Life, if we could dissect and disseminate it, if we could but put it under microscopic investigation, would resemble the images seen on an Electrocardiograph.  The graphical rise and fall of a heartbeat depicting the struggles we face each and every day.  Ask yourself this question, why is it that when the linear progression on an Electrocardiograph goes flat, it means the patient is dying or dead? Medical professionals will no doubt answer promptly that, when the machine goes flat, it means the heart stopped beating. So how is this relevant to our lives?   What lessons can we draw from this metaphorical insinuation? I for one is of the opinion that a life without struggle is no life at all.  Struggle builds character, struggle strengthens bonds, struggle breeds optimism and hope for better days.   Struggle is perchance nature’s sieving bowl, acting to separate the wheat from the chaff. The French say, “A vaincre sans peril, on triomphe sans gloire.”...

What is a hallucination?… The most probable answer is a hallucination is a fantasy. The mind’s visual presentation of an event or object that is not at that moment existing. We can even argue that hallucinations are the exact opposite of reality. Made me ask myself. What then is reality? The answer that came to my mind almost immediately was, reality is life as we see and know it. Reality has in itself a component of that which is witnessed; That which is real. But, hypothetically speaking, what if, we in general are hallucinating reality: What if reality is imagined. What if we perceive reality the way our minds want us to, and not the way it is. I mean, a mad man doesn’t for one second think he is mad; Furthermore, we are all born and inducted into a pre-conceived society with pre-existing notions and expectations. What if it is all a ruse..a cover to something much bigger than ourselves… I read once that, and I quote. “If we give up what we are, we become what we can be.”