He stands up from the bed and goes to the pile of books on the floor, lifting them one by one, reading the first and the last sentence.

"What are you doing?"

"I am looking at your life"

4 notes

There’s usually that fleeting moment when you are aware of your own happiness. That moment that lasts as long as a sneeze and then immediately disappears before you even see it. It’s like it was never here in the first place. 

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Love it. 

Love it. 

(Source: andreaspada, via her-macushla)

29,876 notes

No!

Thank you Mhiren for this post. 

Consent. Entitlement to women bodies. Of men who want to push a little bit more because no is everything else except no. Of men who have already decided it is yes even before they ask.

You belong to them and not yourself. 

When you say no, perhaps it is because something is wrong with you. Perhaps it is revenge feminism. Maybe you are angry at the world. Who hurt you? It cannot be that you, in your right mind, decided to say no. There must be something else. The world is waiting for you to explain. Why would you say no? 

He wants you. That’s all that matters. You don’t have to want him back.

I’m struggling with this kind of violence. 

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Restlessness

You wake up in the middle of the night craving for something you do not know, looking for some kind of healing from what you do not know. You just want to be filled up with something - it’s like a mixture of thirst and hunger and lust and the need to smell something or touch something or walk and plank and sit and stand all at the same time. A restlessness of all the senses. And then you try music, sex, drink water, you sit upright, you try to play candy crush. Nothing. You try to write and all those sentences look funny on your screen. All the words are misspelled, but they aren’t. 

This restlessness is asking for something else.

And then you go through your pile and somewhere at the back where you’ve pushed the books you’ll read sometimes in the never, you find a lost copy of Toni Morrison.

Toni Morrison.

Toni Morrison writes women beautifully. Toni Morrison takes away my restlessness.

Until the next restlessness.  

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peacefordespair:

I read Okwiri Oduor’s short story that won the Caine Prize and have been mulling over this since:

Everyone has people that belong to them.” 
The old man laughed. “Only the food you have already eaten belongs to you.”

I sometimes think we are obsessed with belonging. With owning (people… things…). I truly wonder why. 

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mhiren:

I dreamt you were dying
And so I told you I love you
Because I knew I’d never have to say it again

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You do not know the power in a conversation between a woman and another. It’s magic, I tell you. 

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"Let me tell you: one day you will renounce your exile, and you will go back home, and your mother will take out the finest china, and your father will slaughter a sprightly cockerel for you, and the neighbours will bring some potluck, and your sister will wear her navy blue PE wrapper, and your brother will eat with a spoon instead of squelching rice and soup through the spaces between his fingers. And you, you will have to tell them stories about places not-here, about people that soaked their table napkins in Jik Bleach and talked about London as though London was a place one could reach by hopping onto an Akamba bus and driving by Nakuru and Kisumu and Kakamega and finding themselves there.
You will tell your people about men that did not slit melons up into slices but split them into halves and ate each of the halves out with a spoon, about women that held each other’s hands around street lamps in town and skipped about, showing snippets of grey Mother’s Union bloomers as they sang:
Kijembe ni kikali, param-param
Kilikata mwalimu, param-param
You think that your people belong to you, that they will always have a place for you
in their minds and their hearts. You think that your people will always look forward to your return.
Maybe the day you go back home to your people you will have to sit in a wicker chair on the veranda and smoke alone because, although they may have wanted to have you back, no one really meant for you to stay."

Caine Prize Winner Okwiri Oduor’s My Father’s Head 

(via franticcurls)

splendid writing, well deserved win. applauded and celebrated.

- kenyancoffee 

(via kenyancoffee)

(via kenyancoffee)

33 notes

On some nights, you want nothing but Toni Morrison and a blanket.

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