Finding us : an immigrant’s tale

In honour of world refugee day.  June 20, 2017. I do not attempt to know how it feels but my heart goes out to all affected by war,  political , economic  social and whatever reason that made them make the difficult decision to leave what they have called home.


I’ll find her
I couldn’t help but feel guilt for our current predicament
It was my idea.
I decided we had had enough
Our parent were gone, siblings too
She’s all I have left and dying together wasn’t an option
We deserved a better life.


Lord she must be scared
I’m not there to hold her close to me.
She said my smell was comforting.
The salt water breeze must be on me, I’m sure she’d love it.
Lord I hope she’s all right.
She’s strong I know, the war had made her that way or brought it out of her, I’m not sure.
She’s strong but Lord, I’ve got to find her.
I’ll find her.


‘We were separated at the shore
Put in different boats and told we’ll get to the same location no more than six hours apart.
My boat arrived first.
I waited on the shores of what should have been our new beginning, our new home.
Hers never came.’
I had recalled the story a million times to anyone I thought could help.
I described her as they looked upon her picture.
I remember the day it was taken, her smile …
Good lord, I hope she’s alive.


‘Yea a woman matching your description was here’
‘What?’ That snapped me back to reality, my present.
‘Yea, a couple of days ago but I doubt she’s used’
‘What, why?’
‘She’s pregnant’
And I froze. ‘Where did she go?’
‘Probably the clinic, she was a sight for sore eyes even in her condition’
It had got to be her but … pregnant?

The tents were the cleanest in the immigration camp
I had not prepared myself for what I saw: people were sick, boned like children clung to their mothers. Their mother’s eyes read all hope is lost, you can go love.
‘I’m looking for a pregnant woman brought her three days ago.’
As I stretched out the picture to nurse who looked exhausted, I heard it, soft cooing and then the story, the ending no less.
‘You’ll love him, I’m certain cause he’ll love you more than life itself. You’re going to meet him soon. Your father, Mike.’
It was her. She was there. I am a father. I was scared. I can’t raise a child here. I was happy, mine.
As I pulled back the curtains separating us, she looked up, her smile…
Kissing the forehead of our child, she said ‘He’s here.’

Later she told me, she knew I’d find her.
She knew we would find each other.
She said she felt it in her bones.
We named our son ‘Ireti’ it means HOPE.

Yes I’m black

I remember going into the early hours of my 18th birthday thinking, ’18 years’. It took me 18 years to fall in love with me.

So when he joked ‘ you’re black‘, insult or not, I threw it back in his face.

Yes I’m black

I’m as black as the night giving way to the morning sun.

I’m so black that when it does hits my skin, I shine.

It illuminates my flaws, brings to focus my big black eyes,  highlights my gloriously shaped nose,  sits on the curve of my lips, it’s rays passes through my chemical relaxed hair.

And I refuse to hide anymore.

I embrace it,  cos I’m black.

I’m as black as that bottomless pit.  My depths, few can but barely explore.

I’m what leaves the simple minded confused.

Yes I’m black.

And when I lay in bed at night, blending into the blackness, I whisper to myself;

these black hands will create greatness,  my black legs will climb heights unimaginable, my black skin will be seen’.




She wore a bright pink dress, walked into the cafe bringing in a calm breeze that set the mood right. It wasn’t her perfume, it was her soul.
‘Coffee to go please’.
I had never met her before but I imagined she was loved. I imagined her heart big enough to soothe the deepest pains, heal the broken.
‘Milk or sugar? ‘ I asked
She looked sad, I stalled with her order thinking of a good line to start a conversation.
This beautiful soul should never know a sad day. Never face it alone.
I’d figured it out and as I handed her coffee over to her, it was go time I thought
‘What brings you to our small town’
She wasn’t expecting it but she smiled was about to answer when another customer walked over.
See you later then and she was gone.
I never got to hear her story, never got to feel her soul.
Later dad came back from work. He worked at the city morgue.
Strange day today, he said.
A body was brought in and no one could identify her.
Dad was never one to bring work home but today was different.
She looked so peaceful he continued yet her beautiful bright pink dress was stained with so much blood.
His words seems muffled after that
I knew it was her and I could hear no more.
She was filed as Jane doe
Buried in the graveyard outside of town.
It’s been over a year now and I still think of her .(she still comes up in my mind.)
So today I took flowers to her grave or at least I wanted to.
What a pity that such a beautiful soul was grouped along with many others, some thieves I’m sure, common criminals.
It was a graveyard for passerbys no one knew. I could never find her tombstone they all read UNKNOWN.




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What just happened makes me see me the way you see me.

You think me weak, small and quiet with no voice.

And as much as I want to scream in you’re face I have a voice. I won’t, I’ll write this instead.

My voice is loud.

My  voice is undiluted, unfiltered, unquestionably mine

My voice is heard when this paper touches this pen

My voice resonates creating ripples, forming waves.

My voice is  strong

Strong enough to speak truth

I’ll never use it to say you didn’t inspire me, you inspired this, hate, disapproval, defiance whatever it may be, its a resolve.

I’m using this voice you always seem to miss to say I’m done.

my voice  is proud

And this loud, proud, strong voice, mine, refuses to be silenced.


little girl


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I personalise all my poems, I think its because I heard poets write from what they know, what they have felt and I want to oh so desperately believe I have in my few years here experienced things worth writing.

But the truth is, I have a lot more to experience and the little girl in me rebellious and adamant on not changing has this to say:


Dear life I will run this race to the very end.

I will not quit when you make me believe it’s my only option.

I will not let vile people and circumstances  you throw at me cause me to change who I really am.

I will not lose my child like nature you’ve already accused as being naive just to match the wrong I see.

I will not change my beliefs to please you or the people you bring me.

I will not let this heart broken one too many times cause me to love any different.

But dear life, do deal kindly with me because this little girl is just scared, scared to grow up and be.

one year old


, , ,

I’m one year old as a blogger and I must say it has not been as easy and fun as I thought it would be. I remember the day I started this blog as if it was yesterday ( that’s cliché but true) , I had just been turned down from joining a spoken word club and I was lying on my bed not sulking but thinking ‘well, my voice has got to be heard one way or the other’ and the idea came to me. I didn’t think long enough to doubt myself I just did it and I knew it was right because I had never been happier.

Fast forward a couple months ahead and it became …. Let’s just say I have had to learn patience and I’m still learning. This will not pick up with a snap of my finger and I’m okay with that because of this :

I have loved and will love so many things but what I remember loving the longest (besides my family) is that feeling that I get when I read something utterly profound, something that causes me to stop and think or feel in a way I haven’t before or cry or laugh and  I dream of a day when  my writing makes someone feel that way.

So I promise no one but myself to keep on keeping on, because I know eventually my dream will come true.

to my soul mate


I'm obsessed with poems about love. the different perspectives on love, heart break and everything in between. 
And my obsession has grown.
Not into a desire for an epic love story of my own but into fear.
So no, I don't fear failure or death. My biggest fear is never experiencing it, that epic love.
The one the poets write so beautifully about.
I don't fear never been loved, I fear never loving someone so deep
Never letting myself being lost in something as pure as the unfiltered words of a poet. 
                     If your reading this, it's my heart and I hope you change it.

3 became 1

I’m Watching him watch her.             And it’s beautiful                                  She doesn’t realise that the her very existence, her presence, soft smiles and ‘resting bitch face’ makes him


And that’s when I think of you


I only think of you when I see love portrayed in the perfect way            Never do I think of what we had      What we had wasn’t it                         But what we could have had                    If you were not blind to the only truth standing before you                                 A girl, me deeply in love with you 


But you  made me believe I had a misconception of love                         Made me think I was doing it wrong and you  were showing me how it ought to be                                                         Took me a while but I figured it out   You were wrong                                There was no misconception              This is love                                             My way, my kind of love is one of the many right versions. 

Love outside the box

I Imagine you, laid on your side using your body to form an arc

And I’d fit perfectly into it

My back on your chest and our legs intertwined

And we’d just lay

Not saying a word but hearing each others soul play before us

I’d feel your heart, count every beat per minute and realise our hearts do beat as one

And you’ll listen to me breathe, my rhythmic in and out to you would be a melody easing your worries away

We’d get lost, me in you and you in me

And when our eyes do meet, a single tear rolling down my cheek that you’d catch will say the words you’ve heard before

This time it would be different

For the words won’t come out like a poorly rehearsed poem

This time they would be true, pure

For this time even my soul says it too

I love you