memoirs of a kangaroo in the sun.

"To be nobody but yourself in a world that’s doing its best to make you somebody else, is to fight the hardest battle you are ever going to fight. Never stop fighting."   E. E. Cummings All the boys told her she was beautiful. She believed it sometimes more than other times, but never to the extent they claimed. If she was so beautiful, why was she always alone? Why wasn’t she able to hold down a relationship for more than months? Why didn’t she like what she saw in the mirror? It’s not like she was ugly, it’s just that there had to be something she had less of than the other girls. Her nose could use a little nipping here and there and it wouldn’t hurt if she dropped a few pounds.   Sean had left her for a girl with longer hair and a dimpled smile in her light-skinned complexion. If she was all that, why didn’t she feel that way?  There had to be something wrong with her. The most rational thing she can do is take whatever is given to her; she really

I’m a silhouette in the dark. Holding a short stem glass of wine in my right hand, head still turned towards the direction where the sun set hours ago. I wonder often about the smaller things in life: the devil is in the details after all.  But mostly I wonder about the bigger things. God.   The billions of galaxies. Wealth. True Love. Destiny. Good and Evil. Justice. Karma. Creation. Purpose. Every twenty minutes or so, I remember to take a small sip of the sweet red wine, shake my head maybe and sigh a little. It’s all such a web. Many might call it philosophy. They wonder where I get all these theories. I just want a formula. Something that will make it all make sense. I switch legs, move the right leg that’s been crossed over the left and instead cross the left over the right. The glass moves from the right hand to the left. Another quick and inconspicuous shake of the head. Another quick sigh. In the quiet still of the darkness, I can see inside my head

It's his graduation day.  You would not believe the odds he has had to overcome to get here.  All these people looking at him and cheering on as he walks to the podium to receive his certificate only see the new black robe with a Maroon sash. They only see his wide smile, fresh haircut and designer shoes. He walks with his head slightly tilted to one side, as if studying the situation. Although the smile barely shows any teeth, it goes straight to his eyes. He made it. Atwooki has made it. All the statistics said he wouldn't make it. Everyone back home said he would never get far. Heck; his own mother said he would never amount to anything. And after a while, he had come to believe he never would. When the result slip for his Primary Leaving Examinations showed he had barely passed, no one was surprised. He had hung his head low and accepted the hoe that his mother had handed him. His school days were over, she had said. There was no point in payi

This is a true story. I remember the day she walked into my life. It was a quiet sunny day in school, and I was skipping class. New students were still reporting so the dormitories were left open all day. It was my first time in a new school and already the monotony of every day routine promised a dull gray three months ahead. Being the first few days, most of us were still feeling out the place, seeing who was who, and weighing our social options. Mine didn’t look promising. I had already resigned myself to counting down the days until I was back home. Just as I started to head back to class, she walked into the dormitory. "If I were to write down all the schemes we pulled off over the years, I’m pretty sure people would look for me with machetes She was late, fashionably late as I would come to learn, but she walked in like she already knew exactly what to do. As fate would have it, we were in the same class.   I have tried to define that look on her face wh

I see it in the way your eyes avoid mine: your pursed lips and poorly-concealed emotion, All the questions that go unanswered, the judgment in each pause, The unspoken expectations and passive aggressiveness You would never say it to my face but I can smell it on you like garlic on breath. You wish I was softer around the edges You prefer if I didn’t speak so loud If only I walked slightly behind you and not next to You wish I wasn’t so ambitious because women should know their place My clothes should be more flowery and slightly longer. I shouldn’t look you directly in the eye or question what you say so often If only I kept my opinions to myself. You wish I didn’t have so many friends and didn’t get invited to so many parties You prefer I wasn’t so confident; no woman should be so whole, We all need a certain level of brokenness. It keeps us humble, shows us our position in the grand scheme of things I see it in your posture; the way you seat faci