Category Archives: Hung Up

The Wrong One

By Jamike Ekennia-Ebeh (Nigeria)

What do you do when the wrong one loves you?

When the wrong one cares and thinks about you

What do you do when you make the wrong one fall?

When the one you don’t want comes to answer the call

What do you do when the wrong one seems perfect?

And the right one is wrong, no hold, no prospect

 

What do you do when the wrong one is there?

Always ready and helping and loving and fair

What do you do when the wrong one loves you right?

When they’re ‘right’ in your heart but ‘wrong’ in your sight

What do you do when the wrong one brings it all?

But the right one does nothing to even try to make you fall

 

What do you do when the wrong one makes sense

Starts making you dream and feeling all tense?

What do you do when the wrong one is right

Do you accept the fates or take them to fight?

What do you do when you love the wrong one too

Because the right one never came and the wrong one loved you…

 

You can find more of his work on his blog … where I just spent the past maybe 4 hours or so, going over posts as far back as they go (The stalk is strong with me…).

Cheers, and see you soon.

Love and hugs.

 

 

 

 

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My Writer’s Block

What exactly does it mean to have “writer’s block”? Many people have said that they have experienced this, that this is the reason for their not putting out any work… Does this phrase have a specific, fixed, direct, immutable meaning? Well no, of course not, but then again that question was dumb. I just googled it, and apparently, there’s even types of writers block. TYPES!!!

I would say I have been experiencing it but then that wouldn’t be entirely true. I have had content to write about. I have written all about everything, and then so much more. The only problem is, everything I write has boiled down to one topic. One. I could be writing about the beauty of the wind in my face on a game drive, and then you become the wind. It could be about how I had the most beautiful cake in the whole wide world, and suddenly you’re the cake. It could be about the beauty of the views I have of the sunrise and sunset from my room, and then there you are, my sun rising and setting with you.

Truth is, nothing I churn out is untouched by you. The thought. The idea. The memory of you. You are everywhere. Usually, I wouldn’t mind. But I want to write, I really do. I want to put all this beauty around me to paper, and not have it infused with yours. I want to capture the sights and sounds, and not have them filtered through you. You are forbidden fruit, and it has to stay that way.

Dilemma, Dilemma, Dilemma…

I had convinced myself I don’t need any of it, that they could keep the whole darn cake to themselves, cherries and all. I don’t like cake… Well, I do, but not white forest… For obvious reasons. It’s too white. Too clean. I hate cherries. It lacks character. It’s bland – colour bland. It’s a spin-off from black forest, which is the best. So no, I didn’t want it. I don’t. Plus, I’m watching my weight now…. Yes, I said it.

All day the cake sat in the display, and all I did was come up with reasons why I didn’t want to eat it. Why I didn’t want to want to eat it. Because God also cared what I put in my body, and all that sugar isn’t fit for any temple, much less his. All day I told myself that this cake, which everybody expects me to think is yummy, isn’t my kind of yummy, and someone else would be better suited to eat it. Some amazing girl with metabolism from the gods that could swallow a whole hog and still be trim and in shape. Someone like my sister. But I didn’t just think it… I acted on it. I got her to come and have the cake. And she did… Fork in hand, getting all nice and stuffed, eating the cake with such ease that I thought she had been secretly practising how to eat cake in front of the mirror. Which reminded me of how daft I looked while looking into the said mirror, not knowing what to do. And as she are that cake, I could feel admiration slowly becoming jealousy. I had that cake first. Heck, I bought the damn cake. It was mine… And here she was, cake gliding effortlessly down her throat as if it wanted oh-so-earnestly to be swallowed by her. At that moment, I hated the cake… I hated her.

But of course, I’m not talking about cake… Or my sister. 😀