Feet on the Ether

Girls and Faces

Like I said, the face is my favorite part of the human body. I worship it. I smell it in my dreams. And I’m talking about a woman’s face. Beauty has nothing to do with it. In fact, if you narrow down your search for aesthetics to the distinct aspects of a face: nose, lips, forehead, etc, beauty loses its hyperbolic meaning. And my favorite part of a woman’s face is not the lips, eyes or shape of the nose, but the cheeks. Cheeks are like [insert a poetry cliché here]. This is why I don’t usually hug women because cheek to cheek touching turns me on. This is why I will never slap a woman. This is why most painters and photographers are obsessed with a woman’s face. The shade, texture and angle of the cheeks tell a story. This is why I’m obsessed with M..

M.’s facial cheeks are spotless like the Nuba sky, smooth like a baby’s butt and full of oceans. I could plant kisses on them and watch them bloom into fire balls. Pseudo-sexologists claim a woman’s facial cheeks tell a lot about the shape of her butt cheeks. So if you study a woman’s facial cheeks sturdily enough – past the make up – you’re seeing her ass naked. In some cultures, women cover their face with niqaabs for a reason. There’s a reason why cheeks with dimples spell beauty. Women who have dimples in their ass cheeks should feel proud. As proud as M.’s ego when she knows a man could dedicate lengthy poems to her. And she hates poetry and reading blogs. Good. I can write any bullshit I like now.

Like a few weeks ago, she had her head in the clouds. Got me waking up at 3 A.M., drink in hand, staring at my nightmares. She has the best face the sun has ever seen. Clouds turn crimson when she blushes. Rain nearly trickled down the walls of my eyes when she crumbled our pot of gold, and the rainbow seeped through the cracks. Her face lost all colour, turned lifeless and dark when she fucked up my weather. See, real men don’t blog about their relationships. That’s girl shit. For now, let’s say I feel half a man I used to be before M. created me. So this is…Not that I give much of a fuck. I’m just typing words. Words keep me breathing. I miss her when my hands have nothing else to touch. Words give my fingers life and warmth.

Still on girl shit, a month ago, my niccur in the Emirates started tripping over some hoe issues. We almost fucked the same girl. I can share a toothbrush if it kills me with dental disease, but I will never share pussy. Never. The broad in question, I had saved her ass from Lebanon. True story. We nearly boned when she came to Eldy to forge her college papers. A girl gotta eat. That was a few months ago – fuck, almost a year. She had nice booty and all. Not pretty but the ass was fine, shaped like an inverted question mark. But you know how it is with single baby moms. They don’t give it up without strings attached. So I acted gentleman. Cuddled, butterfly kisses and dry humping. She gets to Dubai and she is fucking my homeboy. She developes an attitude. Calling me names and shit. WhatsApp is the new battlefield. They both get mad at me for no reason. Pussies. I hate those two. Wish I had fucked her. Just for vengeance prospects.

Still on more girl shit. So it’s December/January. Another friend-turned-side chick is giving me head in my sitting room on the outskirts of Kapsoya necks. [I really don’t care if she reads this.] She is talking problems. I hate listening to problems. She is pretending to gag on my stick. Truth be told, I find BJs boring. But you have to pretend to enjoy. College/urban girls watch too much porn and imitate. We humans are supposed to kiss mouths and fuck genitals. Now we kiss genitals (plus anuses) and fuck mouths. Fukk’n pervz. It’s like every hole in the human body is turned into a vagina nowadayz. Next thing, you’ll find a penis in your ears, nostrils and armpits. Disgusting shit…

So yea, the flick got boring. That’s why I’m talking about it. There’s nothing wrong with sex. I just hate it being used to manipulate me. Her intentions were just suspect. So my time alternated between meditating on the hills, listening to Quantik and dipping push-ups by the cave. I also imagine I’m a Nietszche reincarnate – only that I care too much for people. And when I cut ’em off, I’m cold. Like an eskimo grave.

*

Nuba Chronicles

I got drunk yesterday and puked on the floor. Walked shirtless to the moonlight. I had underestimated the effects of the ‘kerekede’ wine served here.

I had had pure coffee served in tiny cups earlier that evening. The type of coffee Kenya exports and sells us nicely packed 3rd grade Nescafé stuff. So I felt a little important. First grade coffee, baby. Called ‘bun’ or ‘ban’. Concentrated. Served in tiny-ass sippy cups. And Daudi Kabaka was playing in the background. That ‘Twist’ shit where people dance like marionettes. Feels like 1960s. Here. The media sees war and oil, I see people living in harmony.

And we woz dancing last night under the starz. Kenyans, Congoleses, Ugandans, Tanzanians, Australians, Norwegians, Germans, Nubans. Love, under the starz. United here for humanitarian causes. We woz dancing in turnz. And let it be known that I’m a good Lingala dancer. Dombolo ya solo. Koffi Olomide. Loì!

Like, so here I am. Some miles away from the Sudan capital, exploring. For security reasons, my contract prohibits me from writing about some things here. So I save these experiences for my memoir/autobio, someday. Or poems. Every e-mail, text, Facebook post, Skype call is tracked. It’s a country growing on delicate grounds of peace and autonomy. The least you can do is focus on the negative. Good for me because I don’t dwell on negativity. It’s how my life keeps unfolding. So, not to sugarcoat, I fucking love this place. I would probably feel the same if I was in the Peru jungle sipping herbal tea with Shamans or in any green suburbs in a First World country.

The wine is great. There is always a mug of it on my night stand. Next to poetry books I brought along from Kenya. Great workmates here too. The hills, the sunset, the afternoon heat, the 3 A.M. cold. The food. The culture.
It’s not like the chaos I was used to in my neighbourhood where people argue over SportsPesa, politics and rappers, and the latest series movies, and such stupid, shallow shit. I feel like I’m on vacation, folks. People here are concerned with their day to day business. How to school the child. What family’s gonna eat. The prospects of peace and social development. And they have respect for foreigners as long as you don’t touch their women. So it’s gonna take a while to get laid around here. I have two Ugandan ladies as colleagues. And some Australian females around the hospital and radio station. So female energy is abundant. Anything can go down here.

We share rooms. Something I’ve always loathed. That means when I’m really horny, I can’t get private time to imagine the soft, brown cheeks of my Kenyan woman and jerk off to the memory. And my lotion for the job is running out. So I channel this energy to creative and manual stuff. Sometimes I just play Lauryn Hills’s ‘X-Factor’ and I let her voice make love to my mind. I imagine the headphones as Lauryn’s palms cupping my ears.

So I just be. Like a quantum particle, I just float on the waves of time. Land like a feather on the shores of be-coming. Like feet on the ether.

*

PS:- The anthology is out. Latira. Get your copy. It’s only 100 bob. Stop the excuses.

PSS:- And love somebody today. Truly love. Love is beautiful. It is.

It.

Is.

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About Wudz

A scribe. A psychonaut.
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