Hoes and Harvest

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I was the shelter, not the storm.

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She left like a match dropped in dry season, and called the fire “my temper.” Now her timeline blooms with thorns she names “my wounds,” each caption a soft lie dressed in lilies. I read them like weather reports of a storm I survived, wondering how the lightning learned my name, and why the rain keeps apologizing. I was the clay cup that held her thirst, yet she says I was the crack. She gathers sympathy like beads for a rosary of regrets, counting my flaws as prayers. But I remember the nights she borrowed my sunrise, then returned only the shadows, and said darkness was my design. Her posts are mirrors she polishes with blame, reflecting a man she never met. I am a river she crossed on her own reflection, then claimed the water drowned her. The world drinks her version like sweetened tea, while my truth sits, unsipped, cooling beside the memory of her hands. Let her rewrite the sky if it gives her peace, I have already learned the language of clouds. Pain is an ink that ...
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After the Storm.

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After the storm learned another name, silence moved in like a careful tenant. Walls remembered heat, not blame, and the roof practiced patience with the sky. Footsteps faded into a language of dust, leaving rooms to relearn echo, leaving light to choose its angles. Morning arrived without witnesses, carrying bread-smell and small mercies. The cup, once accused, held water steady, its crack a map, not a fault. Windows opened their throats to birds, and the house discovered a pulse that did not ask permission. Stories continued elsewhere, sharpening mirrors, but the river kept its grammar simple. Current over stone, truth over time, no footnote for reflection. Even the fire forgot the match, warming hands that stayed, teaching ash how to rest. Now the shelter grows moss and memory, a green insistence against ruin. Clouds pass without rehearsal, rain signs its name and leaves. What remains is the craft of standing, learning weather without becoming it, and letting roofs be roo...
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Forgive Me That I Didn’t Come: An African Apology Written in Absence

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                               By Bunguswa Brian In the quiet ache of Forgive Me That I Didn’t Come by Iyana, Africa hears a familiar voice—not merely of a lover delayed, but of a people long interrupted. The song becomes a confession shaped by distance, a tender explanation offered after history has already moved on. Africa’s story is crowded with absences. Sons taken to plantations across oceans, daughters marched into alien names and tongues, kingdoms summoned to meetings they never consented to attend. Colonialism did not only conquer land; it engineered non-arrival. Whole civilizations were prevented from showing up to their own futures. In this light, the song’s apology stretches beyond the personal. It becomes historical. “ Forgive me ,” Africa has had to say— to traditions disrupted by the gun and the cross, to timelines fractured by borders drawn with rulers and greed, to ancestors whose...
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